


Impossibly, We've Already Caught Fire (Original Track)

by holyhael



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Best Friends, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Musicians, Nurse - Freeform, Piano, Romance, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyhael/pseuds/holyhael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a fire ravages his apartment, nurse Dean Winchester moves in with his best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 22/6 - changed 'title' to 'track' because I'm the author and I'm tired of people thinking the last bit isn't part of the title.  
> also I switched chapter six and seven a while ago so everything goes in order instead of jumping around.
> 
> *spoilers!* features brief cas/balthazar */spoilers!*

There were many things on this vast planet called Earth that Dean thought were impossible but ended up being quite possible. In fact, not only were they possible, but they were true.

One such impossibility was that cherry pie could taste impeccably worshipful. For the longest time, Dean had correlated the sickly taste of cough medicine to every cherry pie in existence (John Winchester was no Iron Chef) and bypassed each Red 40 colored pie he’d come close to. However, when his stomach threatened to devour itself for something to eat and the cutely awkward guy behind the counter forlornly informed him of the singular option in pie he offered at the moment, Dean had to disregard his intolerance of cherry flavored anything and cough up the six dollars for two slices and a cup of joe.

He was three ravenous bites into the second slice of pie when his best friend fell into the chair across from him, wearing that stupid trenchcoat like always. Dean was always torn between wanting to tear the beige coat from his frame and never wanting to see Cas without it. The one time Dean had seen Cas trenchcoat-less, it was as if the man was naked. The thing was Cas’ trademark, almost like a security blanket if Dean thought Cas needed material comfort. And, honestly, the stupid coat worked on him.

Still, all of this doesn’t stop Dean from greeting his friend with, “Hey, Constantine,” knowing full well how much Cas hated the nickname. “When’s the last time that thing got washed?” Knowing Cas, it had probably been a week or more.

His eyes blazed blue. “When was the last time you washed your jacket?” he quipped back. Dean had to admit he had a point, but it wasn’t as if washing leather was as easy as throwing it into the washer, adding scented soap, turning on the machine, and reading the paper until the timer went off. Besides, his jacket didn’t have a massive stain on it’s breast.

“You’ve got some-” Dean gestured to the blemish.

Cas looked down and, upon seeing the smear, sighed. “I was eating nachos when you texted me,” he explained, as if having Mexican food that isn’t an egg burrito for breakfast was run-of-the-mill thousands of miles from the border. To an insomniac as socially helpless as Cas, it probably was.

“Of course. Only you would make nachos in the middle of the night. You don’t exactly do normal, do you?”

“One could argue that working twelve hours each night isn’t normal, either,” Cas rebutted. “Nor is consuming vast quantities of pie for breakfast. And it’s not the middle of the night; it’s five in the morning.”

“Shut up. My job kicks ass.” Besides, he begged for these hours. Months ago, before he met Cas, he volunteered to work the night shifts because they were the bane of everyone else’s existence. Nowadays, the hours were mandatory if he wanted to see Cas on a daily basis. Not that he’d ever tell Cas his reasoning. If Cas ever asked, he’d just say that the hospital was less rambunctious in the evening, which was true. “And this is, like, my second piece.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “There’s pie filling on your collar,” he pointed out.

Dean looked down to see, indeed, that a glob of cherry had fallen from his fork to stain his scrubs. What’s one more stain, though? God only knows what other smirches he collected throughout the day. He snatched a handful of napkins from the dispenser to clean it up. “Shut up.”

“You’re a hypocrite.”

“I said shut your cakehole.” He was still smiling, although now it was more like a grin than anything else. When he looked up from his shirt, his gaze locked with Cas’ dark one. Somehow, Cas managed to smile with just his eyes, and the spectacle was beautiful. Dean was no fool; he knew his friend was attractive. Beautiful, however….

Perhaps it’s because he was running on three hours of sleep that happened two days ago and shitty cup after shitty cup of coffee, or perhaps it was because it’s beyond midnight and the hushed atmosphere of the cafe was giving his wrung and hysterically horny body suggestions - he felt something shift inside of him. It didn’t slip; it felt more like it was locking into place. Something warm and intangible that Dean believed some girlfriend he had months - years - ago would have called the beginning. Sitting in a rickety cafe chair with pie, coffee, and his best friend didn’t feel like the beginning of anything, however; it just felt normal.

If Cas felt any of this vicissitude, he showed none of it. He only tilted his head in that perplexed way of his that Dean suddenly had a pining to see after a nap before clarity rang in Cas’ bedraggled head. “I thought you despised cherry pie.”

Dean tried to shake off these impulsive feelings. “Not anymore. This is downright worshipful.” To show his new appreciation, he pushed a new bite into his mouth, closed his eyes, and made a loud, sensual noise he was quite proud of. The guy behind the counter cleared his throat, but otherwise didn’t do anything. “Mmm mmm mmmm.”

Cas was suspicious. “I explicitly recall you complaining when I bought cherry pie for Thanksgiving.”

“Times are changing, my friend.” And somehow that felt more truthful than Dean could ever hope to articulate or understand. “This shit is fucking heavenly.”

To prove his point, he offered his next bite to Cas.

This was not a thing Dean usually did. He played classic rock music too loudly, he displayed terrible phone manners, he made fun of Sam for his girly locks, and he could not find it in himself to use a pencil to write - but he did not share his food, especially not his pie. Cas’ eyes widened fractionally because he knew this fact. His hesitation made Dean push the fork closer and say, with a glint in his eyes and a smirk spread on his lips, “Choo choo! Here comes the train!” The fork inched steadily on invisible tracks to Cas’ mouth.

“I’m not a child, Dean,” Cas reminded him.

“I know.” Yet still the flatware approached.

“I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.”

“Humor me,” Dean insisted. The fork parked patiently outside of Cas’ lips, which appeared very smackable all of a sudden. Dean attempted to shake off the feeling. It was definitely brought on by his sleep deprivation and coffee binge. There was no other explanation.

Cas looked very close to rolling his eyes - or maybe he already has while Dean was busy staring at his lips - but he opened his mouth to allow the bite inside.

Cas didn’t close his eyes in the sublimity of the pie, didn’t make any lascivious moaning sounds, but Dean still felt like he was in the first minute and thirty seconds of an independent pornography feature.

When he was done chewing, Cas said in his usual deadpan, “Did I humor you?”

No, what he did was turn Dean on. Cas’ pink tongue swiped out to collect the crumbs caught on his lips, and Dean nearly leaned forward to do the job himself. Yeah, Dean really needed some shut eye. He firmly shook his head of the cobwebs of insanity spun there. He didn’t even know what he was thinking feeding Cas. That was something adults did to children when their motor skills were erroneous, something adults did to other adults they were flirting with. Cas was neither a child, nor was he an adult Dean was interested in dating. Or was he? The lines between this camaraderie felt like they were blurring, but that might just be because Dean was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He wouldn’t feel this way with both oars in the water.

They weren’t. One paddle of his row boat was vertical in the air in an SOS while the water rushed in fast. He couldn’t put the paddle down to scoop the water back out, and even if he did, he didn’t have a hope of outracing the flood trying to drown him.

Dean became aware of interest whispering in his crotch. The insistence was only getting more forcible with every second he looked at Cas. It felt foreign, taboo. Panic sliced through him momentarily. Popping boners in the middle of the night at some hipster cafe because his friend was being obliviously lascivious was not something you wanted to happen if you wanted to stay on Santa’s nice list. It was one thing to feel a glowing warmth in your chest; it was another to feel it in your pants. There was an obstruction in his throat, but he spoke beyond it. “Uh, yeah. How’s it?”

Cas contemplated his answer for a long time. Dean could tell he was parsing every individual flavor he could distinguish and giving each thought. His mouth worked, tongue running over teeth as he thought.

“I don’t know. Perhaps I could try again.”

Dean had a feeling he wouldn’t begrudge Cas anything ever again.

This time, Dean was _not_ feeding him. He shoved the fork and the plate over the floral print table and let Cas have at it. He wasn’t feeling too hungry anymore anyway. Something sparked in Cas’ eyes, but Dean was too tied into his own internal struggle to discern what that emotion was.

Cas’ bite was cautious, as if he couldn’t believe Dean was giving away his pie.

“You can have the rest of it,” Dean said. “I’m not hungry.”

There was real concern in Cas’ face. “Are you ill?”

“What? No. Nurses don’t get sick. I’m just tired.” He fought the urge to scratch at his neck, even though he wasn’t lying. Hell yes he was tired. Cas’ perceptive gaze just made him uncomfortable all of a sudden. Cas could probably tell there was a steady nest of butterflies building an army in Dean’s stomach. They’ve spent enough time together that they knew each other’s tells and ticks. “There was this little girl who was admitted into the center, and….” It wasn’t exactly a lie - little girls came in all the time with this ailment or that - but it felt like one.

Cas caught on quick. “Would you like to go home?”

Home, yes. Where the couch stank of corn-nuts and half of the lights were burnt. At least there was a mattress there for him, no matter how unforgiving and cold. At least he could drown his confusion in alcohol there.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’ll walk you.”

Dean tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a breathy exhale than anything else. “Cas, I’m not a girl on her first date.”

“No, you’re not.” He was smiling slightly. “I’ll be a moment. I’d like some tea.”

Dean watched as he stood up and approached the man behind the register whose eyes were glued to a television out of Dean’s line of sight. He could hear that the program was the news from the detached sympathetic tone, but not what was being reported.

Cas paid for a portable cup of tea and made smalltalk with the employee for a few moments. Then, when he nodded goodbye to the man, Cas helped Dean out of his chair - Dean was that drained - and kept his hand on the back of Dean’s shoulder. The contact felt electric, and Dean was warring between pressing into the touch or tearing away from it. In the end, he didn’t have to make the decision; Cas dropped his hand as they walked beyond the storefront. The arctic air circulating through Dean’s lungs felt like a sort of elixir, but it didn’t cure him of this new lust, only his exhaustion and only by increments.

The city was in a state of repose. No horns blared like maledictions. No tardy businessmen shouted into cellphones glued to their ears. No tourists flashed off picture after picture to store in their exorbitant cameras. Only the quiet hum and rumble of the cars on the street permeated the silence. Seattle wasn’t a loud city these early mornings. By December, the construction crews have packed away, the college kids learned they couldn’t party every night, and the tourists have drained out. It was a magnificent city.

However, with every step they took home, a din rose through the pre-dawn night. It was faint at first, but as they crossed the overpass and looked to the north, the source of the noise became apparent even above the interstates. Cas and Dean stopped simultaneously, and Dean groaned.

A dusky cloud of ash and smoke rose from the cityscape, illuminated in the darkness by the glow of flames sustaining it. From their vantage point, neither Dean nor Cas could see much beyond this; too many skyscrapers obstructed their view. The clamor of various emergency response vehicles cut through the sleepy city’s morning, a warning, a wakeup call to the sane who haven’t roused from their dreams (or nightmares).

“Fuck. Just great,” Dean groaned.

Cas tore his eyes from the scarlet blush of the fire. “What is it?”

“There’s probably kids there,” explained Dean. Fires always brought a few children into the trauma center. With their smoke-damaged lungs and singed skin, they coughed their way to recovery, which took days, if not weeks depending on how serious their injuries were.

Cas sobered even more. He placed his tea on the edge of the overpass to massage comforting circles on Dean’s back. Dean was too focused on the chaos that work was sure to be when he went back tonight to perceive any affection surging through his cold veins.

“They will be fine,” Cas assured him. “You are an outstanding nurse. You can help them.”

“It’s not just that,” Dean nearly yelled. He jerked away from Cas’ touch when he felt it settle on his shoulder. “It’s the families going through all that shit. The trauma, the breakdowns, the bills. It’s Christmas, man! You’d think people’d be able to catch a break.” He could already see the frail bodies wheezing on the hospital beds, the burns clashing with the paleness of their skin, their watery eyes.

In his mind’s eye, there was him and John and Sam. Grief-stricken, hollow, confused as their house burned down in front of them, as the doctors and nurses tended to them in the hospital, as they scattered Mary’s ashes in the field that she and John had gotten married in, where they first met.

Cas knew Mary was gone from this world, but Dean never told him about the fire. Somehow, Cas seemed to understand, though. He made a soft noise in his throat.

“Let’s go, Dean.”

And so they went.

Distracted by his memories, Dean wasn’t aware of how much time had passed since they bridged the overpass. He distantly understood that the bray of the emergency response vehicles was drawing closer. The people they passed constantly looking in the direction of the fire were of no concern to them. Dean was grateful Cas and him could exist in silence together. As silent as Seattle got as it began to wake up, anyway. As another ambulance charged down the street, Dean caught the whiff of smoke.

Abruptly, Cas halted. It took Dean a moment to realize, but when he did, he turned back with a question on his face. “What the hell, Cas?”

Cas’ eyes were locked ahead of him, wide and even a little more than disquieted. His jaw was loose. Dean’s eyebrows pulled together, confused at what could have Cas so spooked, and followed his gaze. What he saw floored him.

The Kripke Apartment Complex, once so majestic as it surmounted its neighbors, was overcome with fire. The gritty, often graffitied brick facades were blackened above the windows that shot out flames so high they nearly touched the moon that was obscured by smoke. Every fire engine the city had at their disposal lambasted the fire through the broken windows, but the flames were indifferent to the opposition. They continued to devastate the building from the inside out.

It felt like ice in his veins, even as the wind gusted the fire’s heat across his face. Before he knew what he was doing, he was running full-tilt to the burning building, eyes searching through the crowd congregated behind the barricades. Sam had been inside. Was Sam okay? His panic hit an apex, then immediately abated for relief when he caught sight of Sam’s monstrous height going through the mass.

“Sam!” Dean called over the crackle of flames and rush of water.

Sam was okay. That’s all that mattered.

He wrapped his brother in a hug tight enough to cut off his circulation. The scent of ash clung to him. Someone had lent Sam clothes: sterile white drawstring pants and a tee shirt just as aseptic. A heavy shock blanket had been draped over his shoulders, and it fell to the ground as Sam returned the hug fiercely.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean said, though his brother probably knew as much. It gave Dean a sense of bitter nostalgia. He wondered if anyone was trapped inside the complex.

“I know, Dean. I’m just glad you weren’t home. I tried calling you, but I guess your phone is off, huh?”

Sadly, this was true. Dean grimaced. "Yeah." They broke apart, but didn’t go far. “How long ago did it start?”

“About two hours? It took the fire department a while to get here because of the icy roads.”

“Is everyone out?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

Dean felt the rest of his tension slip from his lungs. He wasn’t feeling concerned about how they were pretty much homeless now, and how they had next to no possessions left in their name. As long as Sam was okay and their neighbors were okay, everything would be all right.

Cas appeared and bent down to retrieve the shock blanket. He handed it back to Sam who took it with a small nod of thanks.

“If you need a place to stay,” Cas said, “you may stay with me.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh a little despite everything. “Not to say we’re ungrateful for the offer, Cas, but you live in a one bedroom apartment. It’s just a little bachelor pad.”

Cas seemed perplexed as to what Dean was trying to say about his living quarters, but before he could voice his confusion, Sam piped up, “Jess offered to let me move in with her.”

“Really?”

Despite the heat and the ash, Sam’s cheeks were clearly burning with their own fire. Sheepish. “Yeah. She asked during lunch. I told her I’d think about it, but it looks like I’ll have to take her up on it anyway.”

“At least your relationship is finally going somewhere. An entire year without going farther then second base? You put shame in the family name.” Dean grinned at Sam’s bitchface.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“So are you going to move in with Cas?”

Dean looked over to the man in question. He remembered just an hour ago, how he felt that _thing,_ how a little touch felt like he'd go into cardiac arrest, how just a glance made him radiate. This was dangerous territory he was wading into, charging into.

“I can’t do that. The guy’s got a glorified studio apartment. He doesn’t need me to take up his precious space.”

“Dean, where else are you going to go?”

He turned to Cas’ question. The fire danced in his eyes and cast him in an orange glow that made his trenchcoat even more ostentatious. It was oddly hypnotizing, and Dean caught himself about to give in, ask Cas when he can throw his duffle bag on the floor of his place and let their lives play out from there. He reminded himself of what happened at the cafe. Best friends and probably bisexual or not, Dean didn’t think Cas would approve of the sort of inclinations that were blossoming in Dean’s chest. Shove them into a tiny five hundred square foot apartment? Dean was pretty sure that wouldn’t end with the Hollywood-style fireworks kiss and a happily ever after.

He had to laugh at the absurdity of everything. There was a fire raging behind him, his brother and his girlfriend were finally taking a new step in their relationship, and Dean was worrying about what would happen if what he was feeling wasn’t just a result from a brief bout of sleep depravation and three dozen cups of coffee. That’s all this was, after all.

“Just to let you know, I’m the worst roommate ever,” Dean cautioned. “I leave my socks everywhere, I forget to put the cap on the toothpaste, I never do laundry on time-”

“I can attest to all of this,” Sam broke in.

Cas merely smiled. “I’d be more than happy to have you, regardless.”

His heart was being licked by the fire, but it didn’t burn; it just heated him up head to toe. Or perhaps that really was just the fire and not a metaphor typical of a shitty romance novel. Dean found himself returning the smile.

“Good luck with him,” Sam said, clapping a hand on Cas’ back. Dean had the feeling a moment had just been interrupted, and he tore his gaze away from Cas to look up at this little brother. “You’re going to need it.”

“It’s only temporary, okay?” Dean assured Cas. He was less worried about his brother - unless suddenly he and Jess broke up, Dean didn’t think Sam would be interested in a new apartment. “Just until I find some other place and scrounge up enough money for a bed or something.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.” There was something indescribable in Cas’ eyes. Before Dean could fully comprehend it, it was gone. “I don’t mind.”

“Awesome, thanks.”

With nothing more to say, they watched the fire burn out into cinders.

+

When Cas pushed in the door, it didn’t stick to the frame, and the unmistakable whiff of synthetic cheese wafted to Dean’s nose. He inhaled deeply, thankful for something other than ash to breathe in.

Cas retrieved a half-eaten serving of chips and melted cheese and held it out. “Would you like some? It seems only proper since you shared your pie.”

“No, I’m fine.”

Cas appraised him for a moment. “You should get to sleep.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Dean tried and failed to suppress a yawn. “I think a shower is in order, first.”

“The washroom is over there.”

“I know.”

+

Showering in other people’s washrooms wasn’t a strange experience for Dean, but it always felt that way. The pressure on the shower head was always different from the one at home; the knob that controlled the water’s heat didn’t always run a perfect temperature turned a ninety degree angle, and sometimes he’d have to work out how in the fuck dual knobs operated; the soaps had different scents and textures than he was used to; there sometimes were mats beneath his feet that were either uncomfortably squish beneath his feet or that featured cutesy sea critters or household pets.

Castiel Novak’s shower was not unpleasant.

Although the shower head of his bath pounded water down at a higher velocity than he was used to, it was relaxing in the way it beat off the smoke and the sweat from his skin, and it was at the perfect height for him to stand under. Thankfully, it took only minor tinkering to adjust the temperature to sit just right. Cas didn’t splurge on expensive soaps whose only selling point was that it smelled sublime to the ladies, but what he had still had a pleasant scent. He did have a bath mat built into the stall, but it took Dean minutes to realize it was there and seconds for him to forget.

He almost didn’t want to get out of the shower once he was finished cleaning off, but Dean figured that racking up Cas’ water bill wasn’t a good way to start their new living arrangement. The towel he dried off with was fluffy and dark blue, and it smelled like Cas.

There was a knock at the door. “Dean?”

“Almost done!” Dean called back.

“I’m going to work,” Cas said. “I’ll return shortly.”

Cas owned an independent business tuning and restoring pianos. His hours were as irregular as his sleep schedule; he was lucky for more than a few calls to tune a week. However, each of those calls could easily rake in about a hundred dollars or more, depending on how far he had to travel to get to a client’s house. Restoring a piano costs more, but it takes more time, and it’s not as if many people in the greater Puget Sound area were in possession of a piano so ancient it needed a total makeover. Cas was usually commissioned for those at least once every couple of months, he said.

“You may take my bed.”

“See you later, Cas.”

Silence followed his words, then the opening and closing of the front door, and then more silence.

+

He didn’t feel very guilty for imposing on Cas’ space. Lord almighty knows Cas’ bed gets as much action as a dusty attic. Cas probably hadn’t used it practically in days. The sheets were cold, unused, but they still held the same scent his towel did, but less soapy: like varnish, like the black tea Cas drinks his weight of. Dean found himself inhaling deeply until his thoughts drifted to sleep.

Despite how exhausted he was, Dean’s body was programed for no more than six hours of shut eye at a time. This meant that, when the grandfather clock standing like a sentry beside the curtained window struck 2:48, Dean was stretching his arms above his head and looking down his body to see his afternoon wood poking proud into Cas’ comforter.

His dreams tasted like ash in his mouth. Although he couldn’t remember any of them, Dean was certain there was fire.

As his ears tuned into the world around him, Dean became aware of the sound of a piano. Cas was back. The keys pressed and danced into a harmony that Dean wanted to correlate to the fire, but it just wasn’t… Dean didn’t know how to explain it. Somehow, the song had captured the exact feel of the hospital, instead: weak hands holding his, watering eyes, heavy feet, put on smiles. It was so melancholy that Dean tore the sheets off, afternoon wood deflated, and barged into the living room.

Cas was sitting at the piano, unnerved by Dean’s thundering entrance. His fingers, bent over the yellowing ivory of his instrument, didn’t pause their traipsing of the keys as he greeted, “Good afternoon, Dean.”

Dean blinked his eyes more open to see that Cas was wearing a Pink Floyd shirt - although he probably only wore it for the design more than any attachment to the band - and a pair of grey plaid boxers. The trenchcoat was nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s the coat?”

The corners of Cas’ mouth twitched up. “Are you hoping it found its way into the garbage?”

“Hey, it’d be where it belongs.”

“It’s in the washing machine, along with your clothes, by the way.”

Dean looked down, noticing for the first time he was dressed in a soft cotton tee and shorts, neither of which he recognized. He’d gone to bed in the clothes in his duffle bag for lack of anything else to wear. Jeans may not be a preferable alternative to pajamas, but it was more appropriate than going to bed like an older, hairier version of Captain Underpants, sans cape. He wondered how Cas had managed to get him naked without waking him up. Oh, mercy, Cas got him naked and he had been asleep for the whole production.

Cas was still smirking, as if he could read Dean’s thoughts. “They were filthy.”

“Oh.”

“You should go back to sleep,” Cas continued. “Studies have shown seven to eight hours of sleep each night is beneficial to a persons health.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” Dean rolled his eyes.

“I have a condition,” was Cas’ excuse. His eyebrows furrowed.

Instead of retorting, ‘Yeah, so do I,’ Dean asked, “Did you write this?”

He knew Cas was an excellent pianist, but it was uncommon for Dean to hear him play. They weren’t over at each other’s houses often, instead preferring to meet up for lunch at cheap restaurants and diners. The first time Dean had heard Cas play, they were at one such diner, and there had been a piano gathering dust in the corner. After asking permission to play, Cas had sat at the bench and dizzied out a tune that had the other patrons shelling out their wallets for him. Dean had been, to say the least, in awe. Ever since, the precious moments Dean was able to listen to Cas behind a piano were ones he cherished. He loved listening to Cas play; he could do it for hours if it weren’t for his job.

Cas nodded, still intent on the keys as the piece wound to a crescendo.

Dean wondered what could have happened to Cas to compel him to write this doleful melody. Instantly, the thought of anything tormenting Cas pushed Dean’s drowsiness aside to make room for distemper.

“You’re going to make me cry like a baby,” Dean said, although a sliver of him didn’t mind. He rubbed at his eyes to wipe away the tears already gathering there as he made his way to the kitchen. He was _famished._

“That’s the point,” replied Cas. “It’s cathartic.”

Dean instantly related that in terms of medicine and didn’t know whether to grimace or grin. He knew the word ‘cathartic’ had other definitions, but Dean’s head was too full of medical jargon to remember any but ‘speedy defecation’. The idea of Cas writing a song about taking a shit made Dean briefly forget about his dying patients in the hospital, the lines going flat, and he thought instead of listening to Cas’ melody on the porcelain throne.

Oblivious, Cas continued to the end, each note more poignant than the last. Dean wasn’t going to ruin the song for him by mentioning his definition of cathartic.

The song finished as Dean poured chocolate milk into his Cheerios (Cas refused to buy any other milk or any other cereal). As the last note rang out, neither of them moved, although Dean really wanted to. He wanted to jump the island and wrap Cas in a hug so tight squeezed the despondency out of his lungs and allowed for more peace of mind. But he didn’t. He carried the bowl to the piano bench and stood behind Cas’ shoulder. There was no sheet music on the rack. Cas’ fingers poised for another number.

“Sam called,” he notified. “He wanted to inform you he was settled in with Jess.” It was as if his fingers were an independent entity. They gracefully slid across the keys in a much more exultant tune than the last.

“Awesome.” Dean’d give him a call later. Sam was probably busy in class at the moment anyway. “Where’s the phone? I need to call work.” Cas picked up one hand to point beside his desk. “Thanks.”

He was pretty sure Missouri would get on his tailbone about calling five minutes in advance about his work absence, but she merely said, “You take as much time off as you need, boy. We’ve got your shifts.”

“Uh… thanks, Missouri.”

“Don’t mention it. I hope you’re feeling well.”

It wasn’t as if he was caught in the fire, but he appreciated her concern nonetheless. He thanked her one more time only for her to snap, and then he disconnected the line with a chuckle and a, “See you soon.”

He placed the phone back in the cradle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank the anonymous person who very kindly gave me a word I desperately needed. They saved this fic from being postponed until tomorrow.
> 
> Also, I would like to thank Veronica (chilly-winters.tumblr.com) for giving me ideas, however unwitting she was at giving them. I love you, and I hope you get to listen to Saint-Saens Symphony 2 live one day.
> 
> I'm not done thanking people. I want to give a shout-out to everyone who's read IWACFOT, everyone who puts up with me posting about it constantly, and also the people who talk to me. You know who you are (;
> 
> Thank you for reading. Thank you for existing. I love you guys.
> 
> I didn't exactly proofread because I'm so late posting this, but I hope you forgive me for all mistakes. I play absolutely no piano, so I hope I got all the music-y stuff right.

He and Cas spent the rest of the afternoon lounging around the apartment. Dean, threatened under Cas’ steady glare, unwillingly finished his paperwork for insurance and such. It was tedious, and he often found himself looking out the window to the ferries arriving to and departing from the terminals, the wake they spread out from the bow and left to become one with the endless ripples in the sound. The piano was a constant sound in the background. Dean wondered how Cas’ fingers didn’t fall off from all the playing. It was constant, lulling, a lullaby for his tired eyes. He wasn’t used to not working around the time normal people had dinner, and he found himself wanting to close his eyes and just…

The clout of something smacking him in the head woke him up.

“Dean, wake up.”

A string of drool connected his mouth to the paper for a moment before it snapped. He hid his face from the sudden bright lights that had him cowering behind his eyelids. “Ugh, Cas!” he groused.

“You need to finish your paperwork,” Cas said unsympathetically.

“Yeah, fuck you, too.”

“I need to go to work.”

“Then go. Fly off and… fix pianos. God, your job must be boring.”

“What makes you say that?”

Dean unfolded from his arms to see Cas dressed respectively in a tee advertising his business and jeans; the trenchcoat was slung over his arm. Dean wondered how many customers the shirt pulled in, what with it all stretched across his torso; hugging the small of his back; the hem of it falling just over the belt of his jeans, so if he were to lifted up his arms at all, the muscle of his abdomen would be exposed. The thought of other people looking made Dean sort of peevish. Or perhaps that flash of irritability was just another wave of annoyance over being woken up so rudely. Yeah, that makes more sense.

“Well, it’s not like being a vet or a senator or something,” Dean reasoned, trying to shake off whatever hang-up he felt. “When a teacher asks a kid what he wants to be when he grows up, he doesn’t say, ‘I want to be a piano repairman’.”

“Do you think many more children proclaim they wish to be a nurse?”

“Hell yeah. Nurses are badass. Poll any kindergarten class, and half of them will tell you they want to be a nurse.”

Cas only rolled his eyes. “I’m fairly certain being a doctor is a more popular profession among kindergarteners.”

“Well, more tykes want to be nurses than piano repairmen, so…” He trailed off as Cas raised his arms to thread into the sleeves of his trenchcoat. Just as Dean had predicted, the edge of Cas’ shirt drew up to reveal salient hipbones, the short indentation of his belly button, a trail of dark hair vanishing into his jeans. Dean swallowed and wrenched his eyes away from Cas to the much less arresting but equally confounding paperwork before him. “Didn’t you want to be something else?”

There was a small, bittersweet smile on Cas’ lips. “Like you said, no child imagines becoming a piano repairman.” His eyes fell to the kit in his hands as he fiddled around with it.

“Hey, it’s not a bad thing,” Dean insisted. “Come on. Rock star, astronaut, Power Ranger - which did you want to be?”

Cas was blushing, honest to God blushing. The tint nearly disarmed Dean, because Cas was not given to turning such a red color. “I wanted to play the piano professionally,” Cas admitted at last. His lips twitched up a tiny bit. “It’s not very feasible.”

“What? Of course it is. Record a couple of tunes, pop out a CD, and bam! You’ve got yourself the start of a career.”

“I don’t think you appreciate how difficult it is to succeed in the music industry.”

“Yeah, but you’re amazing. You blow Beethoven away. Anyone would be stupid not to give you a contract.”

“Don’t lie, Dean.”

“Take the compliment, Cas. It’s true, as far as I’m concerned.”

Cas rolled his eyes, but he clearly still didn’t believe Dean.

“Do you still want to?” he asked after a moment of silence.

“Play piano professionally?”

“Yeah.”

Cas opened and closed his mouth, answers aborted before he settled on one he liked. “I wouldn’t mind it,” he said. The words were tentative, but there was something about them that was longing, as if the dream had always been out of reach but he still had fantasies about it coming true. Dean could certainly imagine it: Castiel Novak posed at a grand piano, a light like a beam from heaven spotlighting him on the stage of a music hall; the people holding handkerchiefs to their faces as they listened raptly to even the breaths Cas took, although they were far more enchanted with what his fingers could do; the last note hovering in the air for only a heartbeat before the audience was leaping from their seats and applauding with fervor; Cas’ cheeks turning as red as the flowers thrown at his feet, unbelieving still that all these people turned out for him and appreciated his work, but Dean would make him believe.

“What’s stopping you, then?” Dean asked, not only because he was curious but because he was starting to imagine even more things friends should not do to each other. “You’ve got the moxie. There’s more than enough symphonies looking for pianists, I bet.”

“It’s the middle of the season, Dean,” he said. “No one would be holding auditions at this time.”

“Then wait until they do. I’m telling you, Cas, you can make it. And I’d go to all your shows, you know that, right? I’ll clap the loudest.”

Cas was still unconvinced. He looked up to the clock. “I should be going.”

“Where’s the job?” Dean asked. Maybe he could help Cas see just how awesome he was later when he was being less obstinate.

“Ballard.” For some reason, after watching him for a moment, Cas asked, “Would you like to come with me?”

Dean’s eyes widened. “What, to some stranger’s house?”

“To a client’s house, yes.”

“Isn’t it a bit late to be making house calls?” he asked. It was a little after five.

“You don’t have to come, Dean.”

“No, I want to.” Cas accompanied Dean a few times on his patient rounds. Dean thought it would be cool to see Cas in action instead of sweating whether he was doing his job correctly for a change. “Let’s move out.”

+

Cas made Dean put on a spare shirt that read _NOVAK PIANO SERVICE_ in print that arched over a grand piano played by Cas’ likeness. It was even tighter than the one Cas wore since Dean was a little bit larger than him. Dean would have to get Cas to order new, pre-shrunk shirts if he was going to tag-team with him more often. Only, Cas could keep the batch of shirts he already had; he looked much better in them than Dean, all fit and delicious.

Shaken by the way his thoughts started to trail to investigating the planes of Cas’ body with his hands, Dean lost his balance as the trolley bus careened to the left.

“Are you okay?” Cas asked. He, of course, had a firm grip on the rungs and didn’t so much as budge an inch more than the laws of physics allowed.

“Yeah, of course.” He pulled at his shirt, feeling flushed. “Damn, you need larger shirts.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

That meant that, weeks from now, Cas would visit a t-shirt printing website in the middle of the night, contemplate the pros and cons of purchasing more shirts for a few minutes, and then exit the browser so he could be free of distractions as he brewed more tea. Dean wasn’t stupid. He rolled his eyes. The trolley slid into a stop, and it emptied some for a fancy restaurant only to fill back up with even more people who were sated from their meals, content and partially sleepy-eyed. The already crowded trolley had the feel of claustrophobia; if anyone had an issues with tight quarters, they’d be hyperventilating and screaming. Thankfully, the already nightmarish ride was not made even worse by claustrophobiacs.

Dean was forced to stand even closer to Cas, their arms not just brushing but pressed together. He could feel the firmness of Cas’ muscles through the combined layers of clothing they wore to stave off the cold.

Once everyone made it aboard, the trolley lurched back into action, gathering speed as it tore down the hill. The crowd jostled them even nearer, colliding chests, then shared breath and flushed cheeks. Dean stumbled with the motion of the bus, stepping onto Cas’ toes and bumping into his chest.

“Oops, sorry, man,” Dean gushed.

“My apologies,” said Cas at the same time.

Dean immediately tried to rectify the situation - and the swell of heat underneath his skin that had nothing to do with the mass of bodies confined to a small cylinder racing nine point five miles per hour down a wired track or his four layers - by stepping backwards, only he trampled on another foot, this time one belonging to a heavyset woman with an already exasperated expression.

“Boy, you watch your step!” she cautioned.

“My apologies,” Cas said again, this time to the woman. He placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder and guided him as far away from the woman as possible on the congested trolley. They got one person between them and her when Dean forced himself - _enough is enough_ \- to wrest out of Cas’ light grip. This sleep depravation crazy has gone on long enough.

“I can fight my own battles,” Dean hissed.

Cas looked Dean straight in the eye with a look that said ‘ _you’ve gotta be kidding me’._ It was a bitchface to rival Sam’s. “You aren’t antagonizing an elderly woman, Dean.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Sam,” Dean accused, the venom in his voice lackluster. The wind was blown out of his sails as quickly as it had fanned in. “How much farther until this Gabriel’s house, anyway?”

Cas peered out of the window for a moment. “Not far. Only a few more miles.”

He breathed in a lungful of air. The drag was not only heavy with the smell of the city and the mugginess of a crowded trolley, but with the scent of Cas, much more concentrated as it had been on the bed or in the towel. The man was literally inches away, and if Dean felt so inclined, he could bridge the space between them oh so easily to lay a kiss on those winter-chapped lips.

Dean was in trouble.

+

They didn’t talk for the rest of the ride, which Dean was fine with. He was busy having an internal dilemma over wanting to make out with his best friend. This was best done in silence. Granted, silence is not a thing to be found on a busy trolley car in the middle of Seattle, but Dean took what he could get.

Gabriel’s house was a daisy pink building with long-ago failed attempts at a garden rotting in the front yard. There were still Halloween decorations put up and, oddly, a plastic easter bunny staked into the turf. Dean gave it a good, long stare as they passed by. Cas seemed impervious to the peculiar decorum, but he probably didn’t think there was anything atypical about it. He marched straight down the cobblestone path laid out for him and knocked on the crimson door.

The raucous barking of a canine made Dean flinch. He’d never been a fan of dogs ever since one had attacked him when he was young - he still had the scars on his shins. “You didn’t say he had a dog,” Dean said. His voice sounded an octave too high.

Cas turned to look at him, and his features softened. “Sorry. Would you like to-”

He was interrupted from finishing that sentence by a short man throwing open the door. There was a dog in his arms, too little to have been the source of all that uproar just moments ago. Its tail _thwack_ ed against the man’s side. “Why hello there!” he exclaimed, eyes shooting between Cas and Dean as a sly smirk spread across his mouth. “They didn’t tell me they were sending strippers.”

Dean glared at him, even though it probably went against _Employee 101_ to do so. “Can it, shorty. We’re just here to tune the piano.”

Dean didn’t have to look at Cas to know he was glaring right back at him. “I apologize for my partner’s vulgarity,” he told the man in the doorway. “He usually isn’t this unrefined.”

The man’s eyes were glittering. “I’m sure of it,” he crooned. “By all means, come inside. Have a looksie.” He set the dog down, and it followed him down the unlit hall.

As soon as they stepped inside and closed the door, Cas was hissing at Dean. “What is the matter with you?” he growled, leaning directly into Dean’s personal space. Close enough for Dean to feel every exhale Cas made, warm with indignation. Dean wanted to shrink back, but the door behind him prevented him from moving more than an inch away. Instead, he shoved Cas away.

“There’s nothing the matter with me,” Dean insisted. “There’s something the matter with you!”

As much as Dean could see Cas wanted to continue their conversation, they could not. They were at a client’s house, and Cas was being paid to make the piano sound pretty, not to bicker with his roommate. Cas’ blue eyes flashed the words he didn’t speak: _This conversation is not over yet, Dean Winchester. Do not make me reprimand you twice._

“The piano’s just over here,” Gabriel called from the staircase. “Or, you know, if you want to keep making angry goo-goo-eyes at each other, that’s cool, too.”

With a huff, Cas broke away and followed Gabriel down the stairs. Dean took another moment to collect himself. He didn’t understand where this pique was stemming from, why he was being so short with Cas. Missouri would pinch him and tell him to clean his act up before she did. Sam would want to talk it out and try to get to the root cause of this ire. Cas would outright say, ‘You’re angry’ and allow Dean to answer as he pleased.

The piano was in a room that could only be described as a sex dungeon. Although it was clear Gabriel had cleaned up for modesty’s sake, he wasn’t about to hide all of his toys just because he had a little company. Dean’s eyes widened at the variety of lubes sitting on one level of a bookshelf, some large enough to have come from Costco, some just small samples. Below them were proudly displayed dildos of different sizes and colors, and Dean just stopped his wandering eyes right there. Gabriel caught his burning cheeks and winked. “See something you like?”

“No, thanks,” Dean strangled out. He turned his attention to Cas, who was running a finger along the fall of the grand piano dominating the room. Dean wanted to warn Cas, because who knows what this kinky bastard Gabriel had done on and to that piano; it could have herpes or something on it.

“It’s a very beautiful piano,” Cas said.

Gabriel shrugged. “Bought it out of a thrift store years ago. Thought I’d learn how to play.”

“Can you?” Dean asked. Cas shot him a look to be silent, but fuck that.

“Nah. I tried learning, but nothing quite stuck, you know? My brain is getting too old. Was thinking about trying to take it up again, though. Too many people ask if I can play and I have to tell them no or bullshit my way through Twinkle Twinkle.”

Cas nodded as he lifted the fall. It was clear that he wasn’t listening to the conversation by the way the piano had his undivided attention. He didn’t pay the room any mind, nor Dean and Gabriel. That was one thing Dean loved about Cas: he gave his one hundred percent. He was single-mindedly focussed on one thing and one thing only. Dean could probably watch Cas in this state of mind for hours.

He started at the bass keys and worked himself up to the soprano. Several keys rang wrong, some more sour than others and making Cas screw up his face in distaste. Dean didn’t know much about pianos other than what Cas mentioned in passing, but even he knew that this miniature beast must have been tortured, because a piano just doesn’t sound that bad even after rigorous playing.

“What’s cost looking like, Mr Novak?” Gabriel asked, reminding Dean suddenly of his existence. His voice grated on Dean’s nerves.

“My best estimate at the moment is one hundred and ten dollars,” Cas replied. The keys tinkered beneath his fingers, a jarring melody that made Dean want to cringe. As if sensing this, Cas abruptly stopped. “Dean, my kit?”

“Would you boys like some refreshments?” Gabriel asked.

Cas was already beginning to work on the tuning process, clearly ignoring the owner’s existence, so Dean answered for the both of them. “Water’s good for us, thanks.”

“Two waters coming right up,” Gabriel announced. He skipped out of the sex dungeon.

Cas was starting with the piano’s lowest keys, and the sound was like half of an atrocious rendition of Jaws. One key over and over again as Cas worked the hammer over the strings. The quality of the note changed into its proper tune soon enough; although Cas’ ears were probably good enough to rely on, he had a tuner out, and it was flaring its bright green okay on the E.

“You might have competition for the Weirdest Person of the Year Award,” Dean said.

Cas didn’t even look up from the strings, and he didn’t stop depressing the next key in the line. “I’m working.”

“Then what did you invite me for?” he asked.

“For company.”

There was a flutter inside his pulse, too incidental to be blamed on random flukes in his body. He pushed it aside with a scoff. “Seriously? You want my company?” Cas only nodded. “Don’t you have other friends who’d be less annoying?”

Cas didn’t answer, which was an answer in and of itself.

Gabriel returned with two waters a while later, handing one to Dean and placing the other on the piano for Cas, who promptly removed it to not cause water stains. Dean smiled. Anywhere else, Cas was okay not to use a coaster, but if you even think about setting a cup of liquid down on a piano, you’ll have hell to pay. Dean had learned that the hard way.

As Cas continued to work, Gabriel made idle conversation with Dean. In all honesty, Dean had no clue what they were talking about; he was more focussed on Cas. Gabriel either didn’t sense it or he was just bored enough to want to engage in conversation with a guy preoccupied with another guy.

Everything was going pretty well until Gabriel asked, “So, how long have you been married?”

Dean sputtered, eyes wide and unable to decide whether to look at Gabriel or Cas. Gabriel, whose realization didn’t seem to embarrass him. Cas, who didn’t give any indication he was listening, except the steady press and play of the key stuttered out of rhythm before paving a new one for itself.

“Oh, sorry, my bad,” Gabriel appeased, though his expression was anything but apologetic. “You just have the vibe.”

“The vibe?” Dean choked out.

“Yeah. Plus, Hot Stuff over here called you his partner, so I assumed you were, you know, butt buddies or something.” He shrugged, entirely too offhand for the way Dean’s emotions were… he wasn’t sure. The tumult was too extravagant, too wild for him to see either end of it.

“Well, we’re not,” he ended up snapping as his blood bubbled beneath his cheeks and scorched his face.

“Okay, okay.” Gabriel lifted his hands placatingly and stepped an inch back. “You’re not, I was wrong. How’s the weather?”

Dean rolled his eyes away and refused to engage. Cas was still tuning that damn key, a note that the tuner called a _way_ too sharp D. No amount of jiggering the hammer or pressing the key made the sound any less sharp, and the sound would soon burrow its way into Dean’s nightmares, right next to airplanes, the sight of his father passed out on the floor, and the idea of Sam getting an injury more critical than a papercut.

+

They didn’t speak again until they arrived back home, and it was only to assert that Cas would be sleeping in the bedroom; Dean could take the couch. While he tossed and turned on the patchwork sofa, he had the feeling Cas had only taken the mattress to spite him, to punish him for his rude behavior. Dean knew he was in the wrong and he’d crossed several lines at Gabe’s house, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still pissed at Cas.

Sleep came, but it was fitful and featured, of all people, his father. The man was aged beyond his permanent 52, and he looked down at Dean, disappointment shining and hardening his eyes all at once. Even though Dean strained to listen, he couldn’t hear the words John was saying; it was lost in a whirlwind of a hurricane and the too sharp D key of a piano.

When he woke, Cas was gone. There was a post-it placed on the refrigerator that said he was working another job. Dean wondered if Cas would ever invite him along again and decided that, no, there was no way Cas would do that again. Dean wondered at the chances that Cas used his job as an excuse and really just wanted space from Dean, wanted Dean back out of his apartment. After all, Dean was being a royal pain in the ass yesterday.

It was a little passed noon when Dean decided that he couldn’t have his best friend and roommate sore with him any longer than need be. Where would he be without Cas? The thought of them falling out weighed heavily on his chest as if an elephant was sitting on it. After Sam, Cas was probably the most important person in Dean’s life who was still on this earth. So Dean rifled through the cabinets and refrigerator for the next hour. By the time the sound of a key turning in the lock clicked in the apartment, the smell of a late lunch was in the air.

Cas stopped in the doorway, his expression a little more than bewildered. “Dean, what is this?”

“Burgers!” Dean exclaimed cheerily from behind a cast-iron grate. The patties on top of it popped and seared. “I hope you didn’t eat while you were out. Want some?”

“No, I didn’t.” Cas still looked wary, but he moved around the apartment. He placed his toolkit beside the piano and shrugged out of his trenchcoat. “Why?”

He couldn’t quite articulate why, mostly because he felt there were so many reasons to treat Cas, and it would be hard to pick one and for that one not to sound too much like one of those whiney girls on the television trying to appease their boyfriends through their stomach. “Come on.” He shoved one plate, complete with french fries cooked to perfection and a dollop of mayonnaise on the side, across the island for Cas. The burger on it was just the way Cas preferred it: extra crunchy lettuce fanning from the sides, pickles blanketed between two slices of absurdly yellow cheese, onion and deseeded tomato slices rung around each other like a target board, ketchup and mustard spread evenly with a knife across a toasted sesame bun. It was the same burger Cas had constructed himself when they first met, only Dean’s burgers were better than shitty hospital cafeteria food.

Although he was still suspicious of Dean’s motives, Cas’ grumbling stomach could be heard even over the space of the island and the sound of the remaining patties sizzling on the cast-iron.

“I could go for a burger,” he cautioned.

Dean pointed to the one on the plate with the spatula before returning it to the grill. “There’s more on the way. I’ll join you in a moment.”

In order to attend to the stove properly, Dean had to keep his back to the island and Cas, although there was a different sort of hunger that very much wanted him to turn around and watch the way Cas’ mouth widened to fit the enormity of his burger, the way the juices trailed along the sides of his mouth and down his chin. The only good thing about having his back to Cas was that when Cas moaned obscenely at the taste of his meal, Dean closing his eyes and feeling a strong twang of want riding through his blood and down to his dick remained unknown to Cas.

There was something outrageously perverse about Dean if he was thinking these things about his best friend Cas.

“Thank you, Dean.”

“Yeah, no problemo.” _You wouldn’t say that if you knew what was running through my head right now._

+

Life went on, and this affliction only became worse.

These impulses and emotions just weren’t going away with a good night’s rest and a caffeine break. It was becoming honest to god _hard_ not to follow up on the instinct to curl Cas in his arms and lick the words from his mouth. He wanted not to go to sleep alone; wanted to watch Cas’ even breaths when Dean woke up before him, wanted to stare unabashedly at every pore and wrinkle that composed Cas’ face without fear of being caught; wanted to trace every vein beneath the man’s skin and try to see if they made any patterns he could make fun of him for; wanted to be able to reach out and run his fingers through that untamable hair of his, see if it really was that soft, wanted to make it even wilder; wanted to hold hands and feel the way Cas’ knuckles moved to every little stimulant; wanted all of that stuff Dean had previously deemed too feminine to be appropriate for a guy to think about. Now, he understood the way Sam and Cas glared at him for saying something was too girly, because this kind of lovey-dovey shit wasn’t restricted to just one gender.

Cas remained oblivious of all of this. Dean was determined it would stay that way. Because this was just a crush after all. He’d had a few in his time, and they all dissipated in their own time; this would follow the same pattern. As long as he kept this under wraps, he could come out of the agonizing experience with new lessons learned and a grudging understanding of all the crappy mainstream pop music about the guy you can’t have because reason one, reason two, and reason three.

Even though Dean had promised Cas that their living arrangement would only be temporary, and even though it was very clear Dean should move out right the fuck now to keep this crush from Cas’ knowing, Dean didn’t move out. One week passed, and soon a second was well on its way out the door as well, and Cas wasn’t showing any signs he wanted Dean out of under his roof. Well, no more than could be expected, anyway. Dean always did one thing to get under Cas’ skin, quite unintentionally, like not rinsing out the hairs he shaved from his chin from the skin, or sleeping through his alarm and making Cas complain about how he’d have to kick Dean out if he wasn’t raking in money because he was fired for being a lazy ass - _“I can’t feed myself_ and _your voracious appetite on my salary alone, Dean.”_

Whatever Cas said, no one fired him for being a little late. Dean suspected this had to do with the apartment fire, never mind that he was over it. When he arrived home at the normal time, Cas would always be playing on the piano, but he would always stop the moment Dean put his key in the lock. While suspicious and damn curious as to what the hell the behavior was about, Dean wasn’t going to press. He had his own secrets, after all.

One night, Dean and Sam met up for dinner. They went to a place called _Luigi’s_ , which was really just a sham Italian place. However, the food was cheap, the food was edible, and the location wasn’t too far from the hospital.

“How’re things going with you and Cas?” Sam asked as he sprinkled parmesan cheese on top of his already too cheesy dish. It was some “authentic Italian” dish with a name so unpronounceable it might as well have been ancient Norse.

“Just peachy,” Dean replied around a bite of good ol’ spaghetti. “What about you and Jess?”

Sam immediately dropped his gaze to his food, and while he pushed his fork around in it, he didn’t spear a bite. Dean’s eyes widened.

“You sly dog!”

“Shut up.”

“Was it worth the wait? I mean, you knew her for years, dated for one of them, and it’s finally paying off.”

Sam’s cheeks were red enough to rival the rosiness of Saint Nicks’. “Not everything is about sex, Dean,” Sam said, glaring. “You should know that.”

“What?”

This time, it was Sam’s turn to make Dean red, as Dean was pretty sure he knew where this was going now that he’s heard enough variations of it.

“You and Cas.”

“We aren’t dating, Sammy!” He chewed his spaghetti angrily.

Sam only smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I have no idea how to end things? It's the worst part of writing, I swear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know absolutely nothing about medical stuff, just like I don't know much about pianos. I researched as thoroughly as I could without asking a medical professional, so I hope there aren't too many mistakes. If there are, sorry!

It was a Friday afternoon, and Harborview Medical Center was a mess. As soon as the automatic doors opened for him, Jo, an oncology intern he’d gotten to know over one of his favorite patients, corralled him and pushed a chart into his hands.

“Thank god you’re here, Dean. I’ve been paging you for an hour!” she exclaimed.

“And yet my shift doesn’t start for another ten minutes.” He looked down at the chart. “That bad, huh?”

“Yeah, flu outbreaks are like that. At least a hundred people who claimed they had the flu came in the door just while I was on break. I feel sorry for the ER guys. It’s like H1N1 all over again.”

“Awesome.” That just meant there were a whole line of worried parents and their not-deathly-sick children waiting to be checked in the pediatric intensive care ward. Great. His shitty day was getting even shittier. Cas had practically shoved him out of the door, hence Dean being early for his shift for once. No matter how long Dean thought about it, he couldn’t come up with a good explanation for Cas’ behavior other than he had a date and felt Dean knowing wouldn’t go over well. He was probably right, but Dean was getting tired of these secrets Cas was hoarding. First with the piano and now with pushing Dean out of the apartment. As much as Dean wanted to respect Cas’ privacy, if the beans weren’t spilled soon, Dean was probably going to make an ass of himself and demand explanations.

He looked down at the chart Jo gave him. It wasn’t for an influenza patient, however. The front page wasn’t even a medical chart; it was a death certificate. _CHELSEA REED,_ it read, clinical, cold. _Age - 10. COD - RESPIRATORY FAILURE. TOD - 13:24._ All his thoughts about Cas were thrown out the window, emptying the space for a hollow feeling in his chest, as if his lungs were merely exoskeletons like a wasp nest, and someone had kicked the dusty shell in.

Jo looked at him sympathetically. “Sorry,” she murmured. “Just wanted you to know.”

“It’s fine,” Dean said, even as he felt his eyes welling up. “I’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t quite sure if she was going to offer more comfort than the hand he felt on his shoulder, but soon Jo departed, her footsteps falling softly on the linoleum.

+

Chelsea Reed was his patient before they discovered her cancer. Even after she was transported to the oncology ward due to the severity of her condition, Dean made sure to be with her every step of the way. He’d play cards with her in his downtime, tell her anecdotes of other patients in his care, and sometimes he’d relate stories about Cas and their wacky routine. After the third story depicting Cas, her sunken brown eyes grew too wise for her young age, and she asked gently, “You really love him, don’t you?”

He couldn’t lie to her, but he could look at the clock and say it was well passed her bedtime.

That was a month ago, before the fire, before he became conscious of the way his heart stuttered when Cas so much as looked at him or stepped into his personal space.

The last story Dean told Chelsea was of when Dean and Cas met. He kept a good number of details out of the story to make it more suitable for a little kid dying of cancer to digest. He didn’t like lying to his patients, but he thought starting the story with _“I’d just helped tell a young family their daughter had cancer,”_ wasn’t the best way to start this tale. Instead, he told her a kid had gotten injured crossing the street when some douchebag with a phone to his ear ran him over.

_He was taking just a brief break, needed to get everything under control before he was there to give more depressing news. The vending machine against his back was cold, and it helped ground him. One minute he was pushing his fingers into his eyes and the next he was being offered a styrofoam cup._

_“I’m a bit busy, padre,” Dean said, pushing the steaming cup away. All he wanted was a few moments of peace before he ruined more lives. Was that too much to ask for?_

_“You look like you could use some coffee,” was all the man said._

_“And you look like you could get some sleep, but I’m not pushing you into a bed,” Dean retorted. He looked at the stranger again. Though under those eyes were perpetual bags, the mile deep blue of his irises was nearly electric. Dean wondered which kid was his, which kid kept him sleepless with worry, which kid Dean was going to have to give bad news about. “Piss off.”_

_He didn’t leave, though. Even after Dean finally accepted the cup of coffee, he just leaned against the vending machine and sat with Dean through his self loathing even after the coffee was long since drained._

_Eventually, as the last minutes of his break ticked by, Dean asked, “Don’t you have a kid to see or something?”_

_The stranger shook his head. “My sister’s son is here. I accompanied them to the emergency room.”_

_“Then go visit him. You don’t need to be hanging around some grouch.”_

_Instead of leaving, he said, “My name is Castiel.”_

_Rather than proffer his own name in return - not that “Castiel” couldn’t read it on his name tag - Dean thrusted the empty coffee cup into Cas’ hands, pushed off the ledge, and said, “Well, nice to meet you, ‘Cas’, but I’ve got a job to do. You know, saving people, not drinking coffee with weird tax accountants.”_

_Cas’ head tilted to one side, his eyebrows falling onto confused eyes. “I’m not a tax accountant.”_

_“Yeah, whatever.” Dean was done with him. He didn’t want anyone to comfort him, especially not attractive strangers who brought him coffee. So instead of looking back, Dean returned to work._

_It was about an hour after this encounter that he saw the man again._

_“Room 156 needs his bandages redone,” Dr. Henrickson told Dean._

_“Again?” Dean shook his head. “That kid’ll be the death of me. I worked painstakingly on those dressings last time. Is he still up at this hour?”_

_Dr. Henrickson nodded. “Give him a stern talking to about picking his bandages, too.”_

_“Aye aye, sir,” Dean saluted. His smile was easy, almost fake. He pushed his deprecation in a box with all the rest of the self-loathing he’d accumulated in his life. No one wanted to see that emotional baggage anyway, especially not when he was there to make people feel better, not himself._

_The young boy in room 156 was burned after the family dog knocked over the grill he and his mother were cooking on. The grid seared him like a burger, the coals blistered his skin, the flames licked his stomach. It wasn’t a pretty sight, and it would look even worse if the kid kept on playing with the dressing._

_“How many times do I have to tell you, Josh?” Dean entered with. “Stop monkeying around with your bandages. You won’t get those awesome scars I was talking about if you do. It’ll just look like hamburger meat for the rest of your life.” That was when he became aware of the other person in the room: Castiel. The man was standing sort of awkwardly next to Josh’s bed. The foxy redhead Dean’d seen in Josh’s room earlier was nowhere to be seen. Dean repainted his smile and gave Josh his undivided attention. Or at least as undivided as Dean could manage with Cas staring at him like that._

_Josh had a look of shame on his face. “Sorry, Mr. Dean.”_

_Cas leaned down to Josh. “That’s Dr. Dean, Joshua,” he chastised lightly._

_“No, he’s cool. I’m a nurse.” Dean put on a thin smile that challenged Cas to laugh and say, “What, are you gay or something?”, or “Nursing is a woman’s job. Have you ever heard of a man nursing? They don’t have the boobs.” Dean wanted nothing more than to punch the people who said that in the nose at just the right angle that it damaged something crucial._

_But instead of saying these things, Cas bowed his head. “My mistake.”_

_Slightly surprised - although he didn’t know why seeing as Cas just didn’t seem the type to mock or discriminate - it took Dean a moment or two longer than necessary to tear his eyes away from the man. “Come on, Josh. Let’s see ‘em.”_

_It took almost an hour to redress Joshua’s burns. Most of this hour was eaten by Joshua’s questions, the ones that the other nurses and doctors wouldn’t answer straightly. Questions like, “Am I going to look like a grill all the time?” and “When can I leave?” All the while, Dean felt Cas’ eyes on him. That added time to the clock, too, making Dean oddly nervous._

_At last, he was able to sit back and announce, “Ta-da!” Josh grinned easily back at him. “Now don’t you go messing up my good work. I’m proud of this.” He poked the kid in the stomach, making Josh giggle._

_“I won’t,” Josh promised. Dean bet he’d be back in here to redress the wounds, however. This was the second time he had to bandage Josh back up again._

_“Make sure he doesn’t start picking at it again,” he instructed Cas. And with that, he left for other patients, shaking off the feeling that his soul had been laid onto a table and examined quite thoroughly._

+

Sixty minutes left of his twelve hour shift, Dean’s stomach was howling for food. The last thing he’d eaten was the leftover pizza he found in the fridge at home; during his supper break, he didn’t feel like he could eat a thing without regurgitating it. Now, he regretted his decision to bypass Subway with Lisa the hot radiologist, and his stomach was rebelling.

He texted Cas that he better have some food prepared when Dean came home. It was still a weird concept to call Cas’ apartment home even though it’s been weeks. The old upright piano, the grandfather clock, the windows looking overlooking Interstate 5 and the bustle of ferries beyond it - those were regular fixtures in Dean’s life instead of just passerby. It’s been nearly three weeks since he moved in, and the realization never failed to make him tingle.

The trickle of anxious parents had come down to a dead minimum. This was what Dean liked about night shifts: people only came by if there was a real emergency. Daylight brought a slew of parents in who were worried about a cough or a rash or a mild fever, and it was hard to convince them that their child was not going to die of their “ailment”. All the kids in Dean’s care were asleep; the teenagers flipped through the six television stations the hospital offered, bored out of their minds. Dean was about to go visit one when his phone buzzed in his pocket. A message from Cas, at last.

_I made tomato soup._

He smiled. Cas was perfect, somehow. He seemed to know exactly what Dean needed on a shitty day like this, even when Dean hadn’t talked about Chelsea. Already, Dean could taste the blend of tomatoes and basil that he loved so much. It was a recipe Dean’s mother had used when she was still alive. One day, Dean had passed the recipe to Cas, and ever since, on days where Dean just wanted to break down, Cas had a steaming bowl ready for him, no matter what.

_thanks man_

He hoped Cas knew just how appreciative he was of him. Dean felt he didn’t express his gratitude enough.

The clock was counting down the last minutes of his work day when Cas showed up, clutching a cup of tea to his lips. There were partially melted flakes of snow that settled in his dark hair and dampened it. Dean couldn’t fight the glow that ruptured inside of him at the sight of his best friend anymore. He still chastised himself for it, though. Best friends weren’t supposed to want to kiss each other, were they? Best friends weren’t supposed to make each other feel like this, were they? Was this feeling ever going to go away, even a little bit? Did Cas feel the same rush of overwhelming euphoria whenever they got too close?

Dean thought he knew the answers for these questions. In order: no, probably not, no, and no. Such a pessimistic score.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean greeted. “What’re you doing here?”

Dean noted that the shadows usually beneath Cas’ eyes were pacified, nearly tame. He wondered if Cas just slept the entire afternoon away, and he wished he could have been with him.

“I’m seeing you, of course,” Cas said. He smiled. It was a small smile, the only kind Cas seemed able to do, but it still filled Dean up with joy.

“You’re too good for me.” Dean didn’t think it was an ugly truth; it was just filled with ugly pawns. “I get off in ten minutes. I just have to make the usual rounds. Make sure the kids are still breathing, you know.”

The corners of Cas’ smile lifted more. “I’ll wait here.”

“Naw, you don’t have to. They won’t mind you tagging along. They’re too unconscious.” The hospital was pretty much just sleeping; there wasn’t anyone awake to mind Dean and Cas teaming up. He kept the light off in the patient’s room so not to wake the little boy in the bed, but the illumination from the hall was plenty to work with. As he glanced at the monitors, Dean asked, “So, what have you been up to today?” It was an attempt to get Cas to confess to his dirty little secret. It didn’t work.

“I got a new commission,” Cas replied, picking up a stethoscope lying about. So many of the kids wanted to play with the things, so it’s not uncommon to find them lying about, abandoned after their novelty wore thin. As Dean checked over Evan Garfunkel’s vital signs to make sure he was still breathing, Cas inserted the earpieces simultaneously. “I suspect it’s going to take a several months.”

“Is it in that bad a shape?” Usually, Cas only had to restore a few pianos a year, and each restoration took at least a few months. Dean didn’t think Cas ever took longer than three months.

Cas nodded. He seemed more busy with the stethoscope than the conversation. His fingers held the chestpiece to his left breast to listen for a heartbeat. Instead of satisfaction at hearing that steady thrum, Cas frowned.

“Hey, you’re doing it wrong.” Evan’s vitals were in excellent shape, so Dean wandered back to where Cas was confounded over his heartbeat.

“It doesn’t seem like something you can do wrong,” Cas nearly pouted.

“Well, you can.” Dean took hold of the the end, his fingers grazing Cas’ as he did. “You’re not supposed to listen through… what is this? Five layers?”

“Four.”

“It interrupts the beat and it can sound like static, especially thick sweaters like this.” He pinched the wool fabric between his fingers.

Without thinking, Dean snaked the tubing under Cas’ shirts. The bare skin of his arm brushed against Cas’ abdomen and chest, and the heat next to Dean’s cold arm nearly made him tremble. He could practically feel the _thumpthumpthump_ of Cas’ heart when he placed the chestpiece correctly, a pulse steadily picking up speed like it was caught on a downward racetrack.

Dean didn’t realize they were so close until he felt Cas’ breath ghost across his cheek. He looked up from Cas’ chest to his eyes, dark and nearly overwhelmed by his pupils.

“Is that better?” he asked. He was surprised by how rough his voice sounded.

Cas nodded. “Yes, much better.”

For a few more moments, they stood there, Dean entranced by the way Cas breathed and Cas lulled by the beat of his heart. Then, Cas reached and took the chestpiece from Dean. Their world was moving in slow motion, or perhaps Cas was just that lethargic in his movements, as if he was moving in water instead of air. Cas lifted the hem of Dean’s scrubs and reached up with the chestpiece for his heart. Dean could feel it stuttering inside of him, and he knew all Cas could hear was the erratic rhythm and he was going to wonder why it drummed so strangely. He tried to control it, but it was wild, a beast that could not be tamed or cowed into submission. It was its own king and would listen to no one, least of all Dean.

He counted the throbbing in his ears until he reached thirty. Then, Cas withdrew just as slowly as he’d began. Dean was again suddenly very aware of how close they were standing, less than foot between them. If he could unfreeze himself, he could bridge the handful of inches and hold Cas’ lips in a tender kiss.

But Dean couldn’t even get his lungs to function correctly, or his heart; how could he expect himself to lean forward and press his lips to Cas’?

“Everything all good, Dr Novak?” Dean forced himself to say, tearing his gaze away from those lips to meet Cas’ eyes. They were still midnight blue, still just a thin ring to compensate for his larger pupils. It was harder to see in the dark, so the pupils had to expand to gather more light to be able to see. Dean remembered this from nursing school.

Cas removed the earpieces, nodding as he did. “Yes. Perfect health.”

Dean wondered if Cas actually knew what a normal heartbeat was supposed to sound like, because Dean’s was a pretty shoddy example of one at the moment.

“Uh… just a couple more checkups,” he said. His feet felt like lead. No, like magnets, drawn to Cas like the earth to the sun.

The next room was for a little boy who’d fallen from a third story window. His condition wasn’t looking promising. If he did survive, he would have extensive neurological problems. Dean hated coming into this room, because one of the kid’s parents were always sitting in the armchairs beside the bed, and Dean always felt their criticism like a brick thrown at his head. _“Why can’t you fix my boy? Why aren’t you doing more to make him better?”_ Never mind that Dean wasn’t Brogan’s doctor. Now, Mrs Stohl was sniffling and rubbing at her eyes with bony, gaudy hands so she could glare at Dean better. She nearly sneered her words. “What kind of doctor is this? I’ve never seen him before.” Her hawklike scowl was sharpened onto Cas.

Before Cas could say he wasn’t in the medical profession, Dean interrupted, “He’s a specialist. A different specialist. From a different hospital.”

“He doesn’t look like a specialist.”

“He’s new.”

Dean went about making sure Brogan’s heart was still reading on the EKG, made sure his pupils still retracted normally (which they didn’t), made sure his blood pressure wasn’t too low or too through the roof. Cas hovered behind him, attempting to make it seem like he was trying to gauge Brogan’s condition, Dean guessed, although the thought of Cas working in the medical field was downright laughable. His bedside manners would need a major re-haul if he ever wanted to don a white coat.

Mrs Stohl still looked suspicious of Cas, but she asked, “So, what do you think, doctor?”

“I think…” He looked over to Dean for a moment. Dean hoped his slight grimace wasn’t picked up by Mrs Stohl. As if Dean had given him strength to lie through his teeth, Cas sounded more confident than he’d started, more like a doctor than even some of the monkeys around here actually paid to deliver bad news. “We’re doing the best we can. Your son’s recovery hinges on his body’s willpower.”

Oh dear sweet lord in heaven. Dean suppressed his urge to exhale too loudly.

Mrs Stohl dismissed them, her eyes misting up again. Dean pushed Cas out of the room with his hand on his shoulder, and as soon as they were clear, Dean let go and finally breathed out in relief. “That was perfect, dude. Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Perhaps I should wait instead of accompanying you this time,” Cas suggested. As much as Dean would love for Cas to keep him company, he had to admit it was probably better for Cas to sit out.

“Okay, but I’ll only be a few minutes. Just one more checkup,” Dean said. His conscious mind was already tearing away to his patients, so he didn’t quite realize he leaned in to punctuate his promise with a kiss on Cas’ cheek until he felt the coarseness of Cas’ scruff on his lips and the shock that stilled him. The action was so absent, so natural that Dean didn’t even think about it until it was too late. Immediately, Dean withdrew, eyes opening wide, the repercussions of _what the fuck did I just do_ rushing through his mind at a speed so blinding he couldn’t catch every single thought. Cas was going to tell him he couldn’t stay with him and he was never let Dean in the apartment again; he was going to order Dean to forget this incident, but it would always gnaw at the edge of his mind because you couldn’t just forget something like this, nor forgive it; he was going to retreat from Dean’s life entirely, either gradually or all at once, and Dean didn’t know which one would be more painful; he was going to act differently around Dean now, coldly, awkwardly.

But instead of being angry or disgusted, Cas did that thing again where he smiled with his eyes, and he asked when Dean failed to move after a few moments, “Are you okay?”

Dean choked out a, “Yeah,” before quickly retreating into the nearest room, patient of his or not. His face blazed. He was such a fucking idiot.

Thankfully, the kid in the room wasn’t awake. He wasn’t Dean’s patient, but he checked his vitals anyway just so he didn’t have to duck back out and see Cas right away. The man was surely wondering where the fuck that kiss had come from. Dean was wondering the same thing, because he’d sworn to himself that he was going to keep his little crush under the radar long enough for it to pass. And he’d done such a good job of it before! Or at least Dean thought so.

Unfortunately, Dean couldn’t drag out his cowardice any longer. He’d already spent a few minutes just standing at the foot of some random kid’s bed, doing nothing. The clock read a five minutes after three - time to clock out.

He wasn’t ready for his friendship with Cas to be over. He wasn’t ready to walk out of the room and find that Cas had left already. He wasn’t ready for the long trek home or the loneliness or the cold draft or unanswered calls and texts to Cas. Why was Dean such a fucking idiot?

He breathed in deeply. Might as well get through with it. Putting on his best walking-on-sunshine smile, he strode out of the room. He was ready for the disappointment of not seeing Cas, but the man was miraculously right where Dean’d left him, looking for all the world as if there was nothing to freak out about. _Okay, forgive and forget route,_ Dean noted. He could do that if it meant keeping his best friend. He was master at it.

“Ready to blow this joint?” Dean asked.

Cas nodded.

+

Cas let him stay, thank heaven. He didn’t mention the kiss, for which Dean was grateful for. His emotions were an even more chaotic disarray than they had been before this night, so he didn’t want to prod at them and examine them like a coroner would a dead person; he drove them into boxes that were brimming, capacity reached and exceeded.

The first thing Cas did when they got to the apartment was to say, “The soup is on the stove.”

“Thanks, man.” It was only lukewarm, so Dean spun the dial of the countertop to heat it up. When Dean turned back around, Cas had disappeared into his room. Regret shouted in his ears. Maybe Cas wanted to let it go and erase the experience from his memory, but it wasn’t easy. He’s going to feel uncouth around Dean, and he will always remember standing in the hospital’s pediatric trauma ward and feeling Dean’s stupid lips on his cheek. There wasn’t a whole lot Dean could do to fix the situation other than not mention it.

When Cas came back out, he was fiddling with something in his hands and looking - _ah, fuck_ \- awkward. Dean swallowed around the knot in his throat.

“I didn’t mean it,” he blurted out before Cas could say anything. It was a lie.

Cas lifted his eyes from the thin, black thing in his hands to look Dean straight in the eyes. His mouth opened for words, but they didn’t come for a long time.

“That’s okay.”

But Cas immediately retreated back to his room and shut the door, so it clearly wasn’t.

+

Without preamble, Dean said, “I kissed Cas.”

It was six in the morning, and Dean couldn't sleep or hold off telling Sam, so he called, ignored the cross grumbles he got for waking Sam up before dawn, and let the cat out of the bag.

Sam was nearly immediately awake upon hearing the confession. “Really?” he asked. Then, in a softer voice, he repeated it. “Really?”

“Yeah, Sam, really. I thought you were smart. Catch up.”

“I’m trying,” Sam said. Dean imagined his expression was nonplussed. “You kissed Cas?”

Dean only just remembered to keep his voice down. Cas was actually sleeping in his bedroom even though the lights were on; Dean had checked before slipping out in the hall, just to be sure he wasn’t going to be overheard. “Come on, Sammy!”

“Dean, what’s your problem?”

“The problem is that Cas is going to give me the boot.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Sam, you’re a lawyer; you’re supposed to be smarter than this. Do that whole Sherlock Holmes deducing thing you’ve got going.”

“You woke me up at six in the morning to tell me you kissed a guy who’s practically your boyfriend already. Forgive me if I’m having a hard time understanding why you’re so riled up. Cas isn’t going to kick you out.”

“You aren’t here, Sam,” Dean said. “Cas was… upset, you know? He wouldn’t talk to me all night.”

Finally, finally, Dean could hear the gears of Sam’s mind creaking to work. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me everything from the beginning.”

So Dean did. He started at the kiss itself - he wasn’t going to tell Sam about the scene with the stethoscope; it was too private, too intimate, and he was afraid Sam would make fun of him for its cheesiness. Instead, he launched into the tale by disclosing that he had no idea why he kissed Cas on the cheek, only that he did. Also, he left out the part where he was being the Cowardly Lion, though Sam could probably read between the lines on that one and come up with that conclusion for himself.

When he was done, the only thing Dean could hear was the beating of his heart. Sam thought and thought on the other end of the line. “Are you sure you’re not reading into things wrong? You tend to warp situations to fit your perceptions of them when need be. It’s a coping mechanism of yours.”

Dean wasn’t going to question his brother on that, even though he wanted to. Sam knew Dean better than Dean himself did, just like Dean knew Sam better than he did. However, he knew he wasn’t doing that this time. “No, I’m sure.”

Sam sighed.

“Who is it?” a muffled, feminine voice asked on Sam’s end.

“Dean,” Sam answered.

Jess groaned. “What does he want now?”

“He kissed Cas.”

Dean listened hard for more of their conversation, but it didn’t come. Instead, suddenly Jess was talking to him, her voice irascible. “How about you buy a carton of B&J, marathon Sex in the City, and eat until you hate yourself. Stop bothering us with your ‘girl’ problems.” The line disconnected harshly.

He stared at his phone for a moment, then decided that he just really wanted a nap after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Three days later, when Dean woke up at three in the afternoon, there was a note on the fridge that said Cas had gone to a family Christmas party. The sting was dulled by the sense of dread that was steadily building in Dean, but he still felt the blow. Cas hadn’t properly spoken to him since Dean kissed him. His stomach churned, and he quickly left the empty apartment without even trying to fill it.

Work was very typical and boring, which was more good than it was bad. The cheery angels and elves decorated around the ward felt hypocritical, and he spent nearly his entire shift glaring at them for being happy when the world was anything but.

When four am rolled back around, Missouri pushed Dean out the door even though his shift wasn’t over. No one would ever dream of arguing with Missouri, though, so he walked with lead feet back home. He was being sent home because he was being a shoddy, melodramatic nurse, but he felt he was justified in his behavior seeing as Cas was hardly speaking to him now. The only reason Cas hadn’t kicked him out yet was because he was too nice to let his friend be homeless again. Curse Dean and his stupid impulses.

The apartment, to Dean’s surprise, was not empty. Even before he shoved the key into the lock, he heard the unmistakable sound of voices coming from the other side. Voices. Plural. Immediately, Dean was cautious and shocked. Cas rarely had visitors over. As he’d said before, he didn’t have many friends.

“Cas?” Dean called out when he pushed open the door.

From the bedroom came expletive exclamations and the sound of crashing. Dean was about to rush in to see what was up when someone who was not Cas stepped out of the room. The man was tanned much more than the average Northwesterner with happy wrinkles lining his face and short, bronze hair. The Pink Floyd shirt he sported made Dean’s stomach twist, because he recognized that faded prism, that little nick in the P from when Cas’ mother’s cat dug in its claws. A smile split his face from ear to ear, and he heartily greeted, “Dean!”

“Uh, do I know you?” Dean asked.

Cas emerged from behind Balthazar, his hair in anarchy and wearing nothing but his trenchcoat, which he wrapped around himself like a robe. Dean felt his heart sink even deeper into his chest, but it pounded like Big Ben in his ears.

“I didn’t think you’d be home so early,” Cas said. Despite his rosy cheeks and ragged breathing, his voice was as calm as oceans before a storm.

“Missouri sent me home for being a piss-poor nurse,” Dean explained. He wished she hadn’t, because then he wouldn’t have to witness this: Cas and his new fuck buddy coming out of the bedroom all bedraggled and happy. Dean couldn’t help but wonder if Cas had topped or bottomed, if he was dominant or submissive; and he couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like if it had been him instead of this English dick, if he had been wearing one of Cas’ shirts not because he had no others but because he couldn’t find any in a mad dash to appear presentable, if he had been beaming that buoyantly. God, Dean could practically smell the sex - it made him want to gag - and he was still standing at the open door, frozen in shock and envy.

Cas nodded, unable or unwilling to look Dean in the eyes. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Dean.”

“Yeah, fine.” He funneled all of his enmity into throwing his jacket onto the back of the sofa, not punching the consciousness out of the dick who was still wearing Cas’ shirt. This, apparently, did not go unnoticed by said dick, and he raised an eyebrow.

Even when he turned his back to fix breakfast, Dean overheard the guy speak in a low voice. “Your friend seems a bit touchy.”

“He can be… temperamental,” Cas replied.

“No, it’s not just that,” insisted the dick. “I’m not sure what it is.” There was a pause, and Dean took the opportunity to pour the Cheerios into his bowl. “Do you think there’s a way we can get rid of him?”

“Dean has every right to be here as we do.”

“No, Cassie.” Suddenly, Dean’s stomach was on the verge of hurling, although what it would project was a mystery, as he hasn’t eaten since he had dinner hours before. Perhaps jealousy or trepidation or anger if a stomach could expel them. “You know, finish what we started?”

“I thought we’d finished.”

The hoser _tsk_ ed. “Not by a long shot.”

“What else is there to do?”

Dean wasn’t hungry anymore, but he poured the chocolate milk anyway just for something to fucking do to help block the images violating his mind. It didn’t help much. Not even thinking through open heart surgery was working, even when he tried to think in terms of intracardiac pathologies and ventricles and cardiopulmonary arrest. Any imaginary patient of his would be dead in two seconds; he couldn’t tear his mind away from the pictures the douchebag’s words were providing.

“How about you get rid of what’s-his-face,” the dickhead murmured, “And I’ll show you.”

There was a drawn-out, slick smooching sound. To drown it out, Dean spooned approximately twenty Cheerios onto his spoon. It didn’t stop the noise from reaching his ears, and swallowing his bite only served to make him want to throw up more.

“Perhaps another time, Balthazar,” Cas replied a minute later. Dean hated how Cas sounded like he wanted to take this guy anyway, Dean be damned. And what kind of parents name their child _Balthazar_? Psychos, that’s who. Psychos who raise psycho children who should _step away from Cas._

“He can join us, if you’d like,” Balthazar suggested. “I can be into that.”

Cas didn’t reply immediately, but when he spoke, there was conviction in his reply. “No.”

“That’s fine. I can wait.” More kissing sounds ensued, and they ensued for far longer than necessary. “I’ll see you later. We can set up another one of these shin-digs.”

“Goodbye.”

Another kiss. Thankfully this was just a quick peck. “Nice seeing you, Dean!” Balthazar called out before he left. Dean only just refrained from giving him the finger. When the door closed behind the douchebag, Dean felt like he could breath again, but he also felt like using that breath to run outside and beat Balthazar into an English omelet.

“I’m sorry for that,” Cas said. “I’ll warn you next time.”

_Next time._ His cereal stuck in his throat. “So, you’re dating Doctor Who now?”

“His name is Balthazar,” Cas answered. Dean finally summoned the gall to look at his best friend, but he wouldn’t look back. Instead, Cas's gaze was fixed on the piano, as if his fingers were itching to play. Maybe he’d compose a song for Balthazar. Isn’t that what musicians did for the people they loved? “I suppose so.”

Dean was careful to keep his tone as nonchalant as possible. “Where’d you meet him?”

“He is Anna’s friend. She introduced us last night.”

“At your family Christmas party?” Dean asked, incredulous.

Cas wasn’t wavering. There was barely an emotion on his face; his eyes were hard, his lips were a firm line. “He was very amiable,” Cas said, “Which is more than I could say of some people.”

“What the hell, Cas!” he exclaimed, at a loss for other words. He needed to tell Cas to kick Balthazar to the curb, because Balthazar wasn’t right for Cas - Dean could tell that already within five minutes of meeting the guy. He wanted to shake some sense into him, kiss it into his lips instead of just his cheek so it was seared permanently in his brain that - that Balthazar wasn’t the kind of guy Cas needed.

“He’s not right for you.”

“Who are you to dictate who I should date and who I should not?” Cas shot back, taking a step closer, nearly into Dean’s personal space. “Have you considered the possibility that I care for him? Will you not let me be happy?”

“Cas-”

“I am happy, Dean,” he stated, almost as much to convince himself as well as Dean, or perhaps that was wishful thinking on Dean’s part. “For once, I have found a person who reciprocates the feelings I have for them.”

“You’ve known him for half a day!” Dean shouted. He took a sick kind of enjoyment at Cas’ flinch, and he hated himself for it. “You’ve known me for months!” he contended, fighting to keep his voice at a level that won’t make Cas recoil. Despite the calmer decibel, Cas still winced and looked away.

“That doesn’t matter,” Cas said.

“Like hell it doesn’t!” he snapped.

“What would you do, Dean?” Cas asked, gritting out Dean’s name with the hardness of flint. He stepped back into Dean’s space, much closer than before. Now, Dean could see the lines that composed his tired face. He could see the rings beneath those blue eyes that so rarely closed for respite longer than a couple hours. Eyes dark with storm that didn’t stray from Dean’s own, even as Dean did drop his gaze in discomfort. “What will you do?”

There was no answer for that he could give. Yes, in the safety of his head there was an answer, one that rang like a cliche because it was one, but it was not one he could give. Cas was his friend, and he would not appreciate the advances Dean was so wanting to give. As Dean was silenced by Cas’ question, he realized that, while Dean selfishly believed this stupid Balthazar fellow to be completely wrong for Cas, he probably wasn’t very deserving of Cas either. Probably less so than Balthazar. Did Balthazar yell at Cas and order his life around? Did Balthazar make a shitty roommate?

Cas’ breath came in raggedly. “Will you do nothing?” There was less fury in his voice. It sounded like he was giving up on Dean. Well, Dean was ready to give up, too.

“I’ll call you later,” he mumbled. Picking up his jacket again and turning the handle of the door, he took one last look at Cas. “That’s what I’m going to do.”

“Dean-”

“I’ll call you later.”

He shut the door firmly behind him and kept one hand on the knob as he bit his lip to keep the tears at bay.

+

Jessica and Sam’s apartment was larger than Cas’, more suitable for a small family than two college students. Supposedly, Jess had lived with her brothers before they decided to marry their wives and move clear across the country to where the weather was much kinder, but that all happened before Sam helped her reach a book from the tallest shelf at the university bookstore. As Dean approached their door, several teenage kids tramped out of their apartments on their way to school. Jess was probably going to be even less happy with Dean than she was when he called; it was even earlier now than it had been three days ago. He knocked on the door regardless. Sam’s unkempt head greeted him a minute later, looking exasperated and bitchface-y. “Is calling not good enough for you? Do you have to ruin our peace in person now?”

From inside the apartment, Jess groaned out, “If that’s your brother, I’m going to beat him over the head with a frying pan.”

“No, it’s just the bed-and-breakfast guy,” Dean assured her.

He saw her glare through the space between Sam’s head and the doorframe. “I like my eggs sunnyside up,” she informed before she closed to bathroom door, leaving Dean and Sam alone. Sam was smiling after her.

“She’s not a morning person,” he said. “She’ll get less prickly after her shower.”

Dean nodded as he looked around. The apartment was what he’d expect of a couple of law students who recently discovered the miracles of intercourse: sloppy with books related to their studies, take out containers strewn all over the place, and various articles of clothing littered on the floor. His eyebrows raised. “I expected better, Martha Stewart. You’re slacking.”

“It’s finals week,” Sam excused, looking at his watch. “And… I have a test in half an hour. Make it fast.” He began to take out Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, milk, a bowl, and a spoon.

He took a deep breath before saying, “Cas kicked me out.”

That caught Sam’s attention. “What? Really? Why?”

Instead of answering him, though, Dean tried to mirror his brother’s puppy dog eyes, which probably didn’t hold a candle to the master’s, but at least he tried. “Is there room for one more in this shack?”

“Um, yeah.” Sam moved aside to let Dean in. “What happened?”

“Honestly, I don’t really know,” Dean admitted. “He brought home some guy, and-” Seeing that Sam was about to interrupt his story - _again_ \- Dean caught him preemptively and shook a finger at him. “Can I finish my story for once?”

“Sorry.”

“As I was saying,” he continued, “Cas brought some guy home. Then he and I were fighting and he kicked me out.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up even further. “He brought home someone?”

“Yeah,” Dean said with a sneer. “His name’s Balthazar. I mean, who in the hell names their flesh and blood ‘ _Balthazar’_ anyway? Hippies?”

“It’s no weirder than ‘Castiel’,” Sam pointed out.

Dean glared at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side, bitch!”

“I am!” insisted Sam. “Did they actually… you know.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean said, “Quit being a prude. And yes, they did.”

“Sorry, man.”

“Well, you know.” Dean shrugged, trying to convey nonchalance even though he was sure Sam could see right through him. “I’m going to go back before my shift at Harborview and collect my crap. In the mean time, can I bum on your sofa?”

“Yeah, of course, Dean. Take as much time as you need.”

Dean smiled up at his brother. “Thanks.”

When Jess emerged from the bathroom, a towel in her hair and another around her waist, she looked from Sam to Dean and back again. “What’s up?”

“Dean’s staying with us for a few days,” Sam told her. “Cas gave him the boot.”

Jess winced. “Sorry.”

Dean was already done with people being sorry for him, but he thanked her as politely as he could before she shut herself into the bedroom.

“I’ve got to start getting ready for my test,” Sam said.

“Yeah, you knock ‘em dead, champ.”

His younger brother huffed a laugh. “I hope this rift is just temporary for you two.”

“Yeah, me too.” He nodded and wished Sam well on his test.

Minutes later, just as Dean was about to lay down for a much-needed nap, Jess came back from the bedroom, now fully clothed and damp hair falling down her back. “My eggs aren’t done,” she accused as she sank into a chair. She pouted, and if she hadn’t been involved with his brother and if Dean hadn’t been totally hooked on Cas, he probably would have found the protruding lip very attractive.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He took out the frying pan, eggs, and butter anyway to thank her for putting up with his melodramatic crap and barging into her apartment. The nap could wait. “Sunnyside?”

“Two, please.”

“Alright, two sunnysides, coming right up.”

He sliced butter for the pan and was cracking the eggs into a bowl when Jess spoke up again. “Come on, lay your troubles on me. What’s going on with you an Cas?”

“No offense, but I don’t think I want your relationship advice.”

“What? Sex in the City? I was totally pulling your tail.” She grinned at him. “But now you’re making eggs, and I have an incentive to be nice.”

“The way into a woman’s heart is through her stomach,” Dean misquoted. The eggs sizzled in the pan as he poured the eggs onto it.

“No, that’s men,” Jess reminded him. “The best way into a woman’s heart is through your wallet. Or so they say; it’s totally untrue. Maybe you can do that for Cas?”

“Buy him something?”

“No. Cook him something.”

He considered it. “I don’t think this is something that can be fixed with burgers. I fucked up pretty majorly.”

Jess hummed. “How about you tell him how you feel?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “Come on. You got into this whole mess because of your communication issues. If you’d told Cas that you had a crush on him right from the beginning, I’m sure none of this would be happening.”

The thing was Jess was totally right. That didn’t mean that Dean didn’t want to be infuriated with himself or Cas because he still couldn’t believe Cas would just go off and sleep with some random prick like that. It still boiled his blood thinking about it.

+

It was four when Dean trudged back to Cas’ apartment, leaving just enough time for him to pack up the meager belongings he had and book it. He crossed his fingers as he ascended the stairs that Cas was working a job, and lo and behold, the apartment was empty. There wasn’t even a sticky note on the fridge like there usually was when Cas went out to tune some poor sap’s piano.

He made quick work of packing everything, which wasn’t much. Three t-shirts, one pair of jeans, underwear, socks, scrubs. The Kripke Apartment fire had originated in the room directly below his, and the fire had just built upwards and consumed everything in it. It’s only been a handful of weeks since, which wasn’t much time to rebuild, or re-buy, rather, everything that had been lost, like his CD collection or the books that had been on his bookshelf.

While he was rummaging through the dresser for the pair of pants he knew Cas had been trying to steal - and, really, Dean would continue to let Cas get away with it if jeans weren’t fucking expensive and if he wasn’t pissed at Cas for scoring a new boytoy - he found a cassette case with a tape and a slip of paper inside. Written in Cas’ handwriting on the label were the words ‘ _Original Track’_. Dean rolled his eyes. Cas really didn’t try, did he?

Despite the uncreative name of the tape, Dean was intrigued. As far as he knew, Cas hadn’t recorded any of his work, let alone name anything. Cas stored an old stereo that took cassettes under his bed, so Dean pulled it out, plugged it into a socket, and popped the tape in. While the ancient machine reeled and whirred, Dean unfolded the paper that accompanied the compact.

> _For Dean,_
> 
> _Love Cas_

The radio buzzed once more and played the track.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the four simple words on the paper. He saw them beginning to soften, to swim, and then he blinked. The static playing from the radio was all that permeated the silence for a long time, although time was usually relative when you were so close to crying your eyes out. Then, it came. The first few notes burst through the speakers with a little residual crackling. Then the song began in earnest.

Dean could hear _Cas_ in every single note he stepped on, as if he didn’t just pour his heart and soul into this but made his quintessence an ocean that carried the music as if it was a ship ravaged by hurricanes. He closed his eyes and pictured it: Cas at his timeworn piano and carefully, painstakingly stringing together these notes in a way that painted himself into the melody. It was so much more immersed than most of his other works, although they all held tokens of Cas’ grace. Dean felt himself smile. It was as if Cas really was in the next room and playing for him.

In his minds eye, he joined Cas at the piano, but he didn’t play. Instead, he sat there next to him, side by side, their thighs pressing together and Cas’ arm prodding his as he moved across the imitation ivory. They were smiling, and Cas was even this close to bursting when Dean laid a hand on his leg and squeezed.

Another scenario unfolded itself while the piece looped over the higher pitched notes in elation. It was Dean kissing Cas in the hospital, but instead of the cheeky peck he’d given the man, Dean’s head bent a little to the left as Cas’ turned to him just enough for their lips to stumble together and create something new, something sensational. They were their own world.

Except this world didn’t exist in the way Dean wanted it to. Maybe it could have. Maybe it has already and Dean didn’t realize it at the time. Or maybe Dean had completely fucked this vision up by yelling at Cas about his life choices and kissing him on the cheek and then telling him he didn’t mean it. There was no way Cas still meant every note on this recording, and there was no way Dean deserved anything close to this.

As the song danced to an end, Dean wiped his cheeks and his eyes. The last notes twinkled out like stars and paved way for the static to take over. He was listening intently still; maybe there was more on the disk; Dean hoped there was more. But all that came was a sigh and a click, and the tape was over. Dean was left in silence that wasn’t really silent. He could hear, over the rushing of blood in his ears, the spools continuing to roll, city traffic as busy bodies rushed home to their wives and children, birds shrieking and whistling, the elderly couple downstairs with their television cranked up to twenty two, the beat of two objects being struck together repeatedly. It all seemed incredibly normal and _Cas-less_. He wished he hadn’t discovered the cassette, wished he could undo everything he’d done since he first shuffled into the apartment at four in the morning. He wished this so that when, if ever, Cas presented Dean with this tape and asked him to find the stereo to play it in, he could say he’d never before seen the tape, and he could ask Cas, “ _You actually recorded something?”_ and Cas could respond with, “ _Yes, it’s for you,”._ And when the spools ran the tape and the beginning notes sang out, Cas could be there with Dean, and they could share this moment together.

Now, Dean’s soiled this. He tore out the tape, put it and the note back into the case, and shoved it where he had found it. Then he left with all the stuff he had with him - he didn’t really _need_ those jeans - and ran from the scene of the crime. He was going to be late for work.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied when I said I was going to post Saturday. I decided to down, like, twenty caffeinated teas and wrap this bad boy up. Also, I decided on writing an epilogue, hence why it says there will be six chapters instead of five (and wow this was just supposed to be a quick ficlet, then it turned into three chapters, then four, and so on. Don't be surprised if the number changes to seven in the next week. As I'm typing this, I'm thinking of things and I should really stop this tangent before I promise something I can't give). Anyway.
> 
> Thank you all for making this a wonderful fic. Honestly, knowing people have read this and love this kept me going. This would not exist without you guys. Give yourself a hug, because odds are I'm too far away from you to do it myself. Sorry.
> 
> Hopefully this mends all your broken hearts. If it doesn't, you're probably soulless and you can come back next week and see if what I cook up by then doesn't do the trick.
> 
> Love and hugs <3
> 
> (Also, narration change. Deal with it.)

The first thing Balthazar said when he called was, “Sorry about yesterday, chap.”

While Cas would like to tell Balthazar it was fine, his stomach twisted. He felt regret, anger, self depravation. He should not have used Balthazar as an outlet for his sexual desires. It hadn’t been fair to Balthazar, even though the man had practically encouraged Cas into what he called “rebound sex”. It hadn’t been fair for Dean to see Balthazar in their home, even if Dean had said he didn’t mean for his kiss to mean anything. It hadn’t been fair on Cas’ on conscience.

“It was my mistake,” Cas said. “We shouldn’t have had sex.”

“Yeah, it was probably a bad idea,” Balthazar agreed. “Not that you weren’t good or anything - I wish I could see Dean’s face when you two finally get it on because he’s going to be-”

“We aren’t getting together,” Cas cut the man short. He didn’t want to think about Dean right now. It hurt too much to know that Dean did not feel the same way Cas did. When they were using the stethoscope in the hospital and when Dean kissed his cheek, Cas believed that maybe the man did feel the same. But then, just as Cas was about to confess - tell him he’d pretty much fallen in love with Dean the moment their fingers brushed to exchange the coffee cup months ago - Dean dashed his hope. He didn’t mean any of it. It was a mistake.

“You sure about that?” asked Balthazar. “He looked pretty green to me.”

Cas thought back and frowned. “He was wearing his white scrubs.”

“‘Green’ like ‘jealous’, Cassie,” Balthazar sighed.

“Oh. I see.” Cas thought about that for a moment. “Could you not call me ‘Cassie’?”

“Of course,” Balthazar said. After a moment, he continued. “So, is this it?”

“I think that would be wise. Goodbye, Balthazar.”

“Bye, Cas.”

Cas pressed the ‘end call’ button first. He couldn’t feel bad about telling Balthazar he didn’t want to see him anymore. There was a shoot of hope in his chest that had sprouted from Balthazar’s words. Was Dean really jealous of Balthazar?

Dean had said he’d call, too, but it’s been over twenty four hours since he stormed out. He didn’t come home, either, which worried Cas deeply. Cas had already left two voicemails on Dean’s phone, asking him where he was. Cas was this close to turning the city upside down to find his best friend, but he knew logically that Dean needed space. No matter what Balthazar thought of his feelings, Dean was obviously upset over what occurred yesterday. Whether it be because of jealousy or some other emotion, Cas wasn’t sure, but he wanted Dean not to feel it.

Cas left another message on Dean’s cell. “Dean, we need to talk. I’m… Where are you?” The words _I’m sorry_ caught in his throat. Those were not words to be spoken over the phone. He waited for a moment before deciding that Dean would not answer this call either in the next minute, so he hung up with thirty seconds of silence between his last words and the push of the red button.

The apartment was very empty without Dean. Of course, from five in the evening until five in the morning, Dean was always at the hospital, but now his absence was more pronounced. It was currently eleven o’clock in the morning. Cas’ chest ached.

Almost unconsciously, his feet wandered over to his piano and his fingers rested against the first keys of Dean’s melody, aching to be played. Castiel had refined that song until he was afraid of ruining its near perfection. He tinkered with it for weeks, months until he finally told himself that enough was enough and it was time to record it for Dean so he could listen to it always. Only, he was too cowardly to give Dean the cassette that’s been burning a hole through his dresser drawer for the past two weeks. Cas swore to himself that the moment he saw Dean again he’d give him the tape, force it upon him if necessary. It didn’t matter if Dean reciprocated these feelings Castiel found himself caught in. Dean needed to know.

The melody bled from the keys as if the synthetic ivory was born solely to play this piece. Cas didn’t need the sheet music; he’d memorized this tune long ago. His fingers capered expertly, instinctively. However, it seemed that every time he played Dean’s song, it lost its luster. There was always something _not quite right_ with it. One note out of place, too much speed, not enough force. Cas didn’t believe he could ever make the piano embody exactly how he felt for Dean Winchester, but this was as close as he could get. It was only just enough.

He lost himself in it anyway. It was about him and it was mostly about Dean, even if he failed to get the song as perfect as Dean deserved. Cas held out hope that when he finally did show Dean the cassette tape - when Dean came home - Dean would recognize that Cas did do the best he could at capturing his likeness into sound. It wasn’t the easiest to translate Dean Winchester into a voice the piano could perform because Dean was so much of an enigma even after all these months Cas has had the pleasure to know the man.

He wondered if there was any part of Dean that even _once_ thought about Cas as a romantic partner. Even if it was just a drunken thought or a passing one. Did he ever envision anniversaries passed with candles broken through pie crust? Did he ever imagine collapsing into the mattress beside Cas and finally, finally, _finally_ descending into an earnest night’s rest?

(Cas was so caught up in the music, in reminiscing the times before the rift began to form between him and Dean, that he didn’t notice the door revolving on its hinges behind him.)

Cas remembered the smile that illuminated Dean’s features when Cas entered the pediatric trauma ward four days ago. He remembered the sound of Dean’s heartbeat, the spirit of it as it hammered in his ears. He remembered the tenderness of the brief kiss Dean planted on his cheek. It was difficult to believe that the Dean of that early morning didn’t want the same things Cas did. But, apparently, it shouldn’t be, because Dean refused him. He said plainly that it had been a mistake.

If Cas was one for crying, he might have shed a few tears. Instead, his eyes grew blurry and he blinked away the excess without it falling onto his cheeks. He breathed in harshly.

The last notes chimed like church bells after a funeral, solitary and emote, nothing like the optimism Cas had heard in them previously. For a moment, Cas just sat there, frowned, and breathed in and out the sour notes, and he wondered if he should change them again. However, no matter how long he sat there and stared at the keys, he couldn’t think of any combination of them that could bring back the buoyancy that had once been there. Perhaps he’d come back to the piece another day.

Sighing, Cas rose out of the bench, intent on falling onto his mattress and if not sleeping there then at least puzzling out what went wrong - even though hours of contemplation hadn’t yielded an answer - but what he saw stopped his very breath. Dean Winchester, eyes shining, mouth agape, shoulders slouched. Cas couldn’t help but stare back at him, and even if he wanted to be angry at Dean for yelling at him yesterday, he couldn’t because it was his fault for having sex with Balthazar. Instead, all Cas could feel was a wave of relief.

“You’re back,” he said simply. He almost couldn’t believe it.

Dean’s duffle fell to the ground, and the man let out an explosive breath. “Yeah, Jess talked some sense into me. Twice.”

Bless that woman. Cas nodded. “I missed you,” he ventured.

“Dude, I was gone for a day.”

“And in that time, you gave no indication as to where you were or when you’d come back,” Cas reminded him dryly. Dean grimaced.

“Yeah, sorry,” he muttered, dropping his eyes to the carpet.

Cas waited for more of Dean’s apology, but when it became clear he wasn’t going to get one soon, he walked back to his room, feeling Dean’s burning gaze on him until he was out of sight.

“Hey, I said I was sorry!” Dean exclaimed, racing after Cas. “Do you want the whole Nicholas Sparks speech about how badly I fucked up and how badly I want you to take me back? If you need it, Cas, I’ll do it.”

It was now or never, and even if it wasn’t perfection, Cas had to present it to Dean now. “Dean, I-”

“Fuck, Cas, I love you!”

Cas froze immediately, his fingers wrapped around the cassette tape, his breath caught in his throat. Anything he could have, should have done was wiped from his mind with those five incredibly simple words.

“I think I have been forever, but I was too blind to see it. Seeing Balthazar-” Dean spat the name. “-here, I just… I was _so_ angry. At him, at me, at you, even. So, I’m sorry for being a monumental ass and falling in love with you…. Cas, say something, damn it!”

His grip tightened on the cassette tape, resolve even greater than it had ever been. Dean was in love with him; Cas could present the less-than-perfect recording. Dean would understand how much he meant to Cas better if he listened to the tape than if Cas tried to spell it out with words.

“Here,” he said, passing the unassuming black box to Dean, who focussed on it and turned it over in his hands as if searching for something on it. Cas hoped he wasn’t expecting too much.

“What is it?” Dean asked at last. His voice sounded weird to Cas, almost like a laugh but more like a choke. He pushed open the box with his thumb.

“It’s for you,” Cas said as Dean’s fingers pinched around the edge of the paper slip inside. He found his breath ceasing in anticipation of Dean’s reaction to the words carefully printed inside. “I recorded it.”

There was twitch in Dean’s lips, lifting upward into a smile. “You actually recorded something?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” Cas might have rolled his eyes if he wasn’t so nerve-wracked. Why wasn’t Dean pulling out the paper? He was only looking at it, thumbing the corner of it, doing anything but reading the message on it. Cas frowned. “What is it? Do you not like it?” It baffled Cas that Dean could have such an adverse reaction to the tape when he hadn’t even listened to it. The thought that Dean didn’t appreciate his gesture broke something in Cas, and though he might not be a person to shed tears often, he was even closer now than ever before.

Dean hit the tape against the heel of his palm, trying to summon words, Cas knew. Still, each strike hurt Cas like it was on him, like it was a cutting sword, and it beat down the shrinking ray of hope he had in his chest.

“Cas,” Dean started. It took too long for him to continue again. “Cas, I already listened to it.”

“You what?”

“I found it yesterday,” he admitted, still not looking at Cas. “I was looking for my jeans, and I saw it in the drawer. Gave it a listen.” He stopped clouting it on his palm only to hand it back over to Cas. “I understand if you don’t mean it anymore. I’ve been such a dick to you lately.”

Cas found his breath, though it was ragged tearing through his lungs. His courage rebuilt itself in a matter of seconds; he was determined to resolve every communication issue he and Dean have had since they met, and fixing that meant making sure they understood what the other said. It began with this:

“Dean, look at me.”

A few pulse-pounding seconds later, he did. It was the first time Dean looked Cas straight in the eyes since he confessed his feelings, and Cas was immensely grateful for such a small but tremendous gesture.

“Dean Winchester,” he emphasized, speaking slowly, clearly, and surely so there was no discrepancy. “I meant every note on that tape when I recorded it, and I always will. This doesn’t even begin to cover how emphatically I love you.”

Dean exhaled a trembling breath; Cas felt it shudder against his cheeks, his lips. Suddenly, inspiration struck, and while Dean was caught trying to pull in his next breath, Cas surged forward and seized Dean’s lips between his own for a real kiss, for a real something, for Dean to understand, because, in all honesty, Cas didn’t think even the tape and his declaration quite convinced Dean he was loved.

At first, Dean was too stunned to respond, but just as Cas was about to retreat and apologize, he became alive in Cas’ touch. His mouth opened wider, inviting Cas to explore inside, and he did. He tasted Dean’s lips with his tongue, the bitter sapidity of coffee and sugar on them.

His hands wound up to grasp at Dean’s hair; the cassette tape fell from his hold somewhere in the process, and while Cas was vaguely aware of the soft clatter it made as it hit the carpet, he was more perceptive to the moaning sound Dean breathed into his mouth and the way it made Cas’ pants feel too taut, too restricting. Oh, he’d fantasized about this for a long time, and now the moment was here and wrapping its arms around his waist in a way that made him want to quiver.

“Dean,” Cas gasped as Dean bent to place a kiss to his neck. He threw his head back, and his fingers tightened around Dean’s shoulders even though they longed to pull off his pants. “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

Between one touch and another, Dean managed to reply, “I’ve caught up, don’t worry.” His hands found a spot to rest beneath Cas’ shirt. “Do you know what would make this even better?”

Cas’ eyebrows drew together. “I wasn’t aware this moment could improve any more.”

Dean chuckled at him and slapped his ass. “You always know what to say to get a girl’s heart racing.” He bent over to pick up the fallen tape.

“Last time I checked, you weren’t female.”

Dean smirked. “You checked?”

“Yes, would you like me to, again?”

His smile was hardly containable. Cas had a thought to feel it and memorize the feel of it between his lips, but Dean was looking down and his blush highlighted the freckles on his cheeks. “I can’t believe I almost fucked this up.”

“You did fuck this up,” Cas said. “We both did.”

He laughed a little. “I’m not going to do that ever again. This… I don’t want to lose this.”

“Neither do I, Dean,” Cas swore. “I’m sorry.”

With nothing left to add, Dean retrieved the stereo out from under Cas’ bed while Cas wondered if Dean would ever join him beneath the covers, if he would be comfortable with that. He wondered if having Dean beside him would urge sleep to finally claim him normally. Once the stereo was plugged in, Dean inserted the cassette. The machine clicked, whirred, and began to roll.

Cas remembered dragging out his cassette recorder and an old box of empty tapes the moment Dean left for his shift at the hospital. He remembered sitting across the table from the unassuming objects, staring them down and silently waging a battle of courage against himself. He remembered glancing at the clock only to see that five hours had wasted away and finally deciding _to Hell with it_ and unfolding the manual for the recorder. He remembered not thinking at all as he followed the instructions, inserted a tape, pressed record, sat down at the piano. He remembered the feeling of his nerves shaking his fingers almost until the point where he couldn’t play. He remembered being afraid of having to start over because of this anxiety, but he had been determined to do this once and do it perfectly. He remembered finally depressing the opening keys and breathing a sigh of relief that his fingers memorized the way to walk across the artificial ivory because his brain sure didn’t. The only thing his brain had been thinking of was Dean and the many things Cas loved about him: the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, how he worked himself to the bone but hardly complained, his devotion to his brother, his ardent regard for pie and burgers. He had also thought of how Dean would react to what he was playing, but he'd never imagined anything like this. Cas remembered breathing a sigh of relief and amazement when his fingers stopped traveling the keyboard. It hadn’t felt like that long at all.

Now, Dean tugged Cas in close, circled him in his arms and rubbed circles into his back. They swayed with the tempo of the music. And for once the music was faultless to Cas’ ears. There wasn’t a flaw in its melody anymore. It was finally perfect.

“This is really awesome, Cas,” Dean whispered. Cas felt the man’s lips brush against his earlobe, his arms tightening around his waist.

“I’m glad you like it,” Cas murmured back. His eyes were closing as he melted even further into Dean’s embrace. Dean didn’t seem to mind that Cas was leaning so heavily on him. In fact, he seemed to like it, as he pressed a kiss to Cas’ neck.

“No, no, Cas,” Dean said. “I _love_ this. Seriously. From the bottom of my heart.”

Cas felt his chest burst with euphoria. He buried even closer to Dean - as if that were possible - to share this fire. “Thank you.”

“See, this is gold. This was what I was talking about when I told you you could go pro.”

Cas began to pull back, only slightly to look at Dean’s face with a frown. “You want me to publicize this? Your song?”

“No,” Dean specified. “Not unless you want to, and I’d be honored. What I mean is, this is the kind of thing that’ll blow everyone’s socks off. You could make a living off of the piano, and not just fixing it - playing it, your dream.”

It had been his dream for many years, and it was still a lingering fantasy today in the sort of way average people imagine happening across a large sum of money. Playing the piano was his passion; fixing them up was his work. And while he liked his work very much, liked his clients satisfied with a good tuning or restoration, Cas knew he would be so much happier if he could produce music that he loved that earned him an income.

“At least think about playing somewhere,” Dean insisted although he didn’t have to; Cas already was. “Remember that time in the restaurant? That was awesome. You could totally support yourself on the money you get doing that sort of thing.”

“I’ll think about it,” Cas promised.

Dean smiled. “Good. ‘Cause I’d love to see you in a black tux. Pianists wear black suits, don’t they?”

Cas had to smile with him as he pulled Dean closer. “Even if they didn’t,” he whispered, “I would for you.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes a little time-hop to about seven months after they first established their romantic relationship.

The grandfather clock softly clicked to three o’clock in the afternoon. Cas’ eyes were wide open and focussed on the way Dean’s chest rose and fell with the rhythm of his breathing. Cas matched his pace, but it did not sooth him or make him relax like he wished he could.

He hated his insomnia. He hated that he and Dean could belong together in every sense of the word, and yet Cas could not sleep with him like he so longed to. He had thought that since he and Dean shared a phenomenal connection, that he would be able to fall asleep in time with the other man, but this was sadly not the case. So Castiel passed the time by studying Dean’s relaxed features. Although the curtain could not hold back all of the sunlight, it blocked most of it, and with the little sliver of light that got through, Cas counted the freckles on Dean’s face, tried to find where the lines of his face reappeared, stared at the nest of eyelashes resting against his cheeks. He was so beautiful.

Cas had half a thought to retrieve a bottle of one of his medications even though they were more than likely expired, but he thought even the smallest movement would wake Dean and he did not want that. The same problem arose if Cas were to make a cup of warm chocolate milk. The only other thing Cas could think of to make him sleepy was to masturbate until orgasm, and while the thought was the better option of the three he presented himself, it wasn’t quite what Cas wanted. Pondering why this was, Cas realized he wanted more than anything to touch Dean.

It wasn’t as though neither of them were interested in sex - they both _definitely_ were - but they just didn’t have the time. Dean loved to dirty talk Cas over the phone during his breaks, and whenever Cas could, he would make the trip to the hospital so he and Dean could spend some quality, lascivious time together in one of the empty rooms in the somnology clinic (thank the lord for soundproof rooms and lax attendings). At home, their adventures were sporadic; if Dean didn’t come home and immediately go to bed, he was too fatigued or too troubled. Castiel didn’t mind that they only had sex on the hard memory foam beds in the somnology clinic, but still he’d like more.

It was nearly time for Dean to wake up, anyway.

His fingers traversed Dean’s body like a piano board, like it was his first time to memorize where each key was and what they sounded like. There were things Cas already knew - Dean’s enjoyment of blow jobs, nipple play, dirty talk - but he hadn’t yet put these things together. Like a beginner first sitting down at the piano, he had played simple songs first, but now he could combine what he’d learned over the months to make a more complex symphony.

So far, Dean remained oblivious to the world as Cas traced fingers over his dark nipples that became firm with his rubbing. Further down, Cas could feel Dean’s erection growing against his own, and the sensation of their hard cocks grazing each other nearly had Cas reaching down to grab the two of them in his hand. He restrained himself, though, for this exploration of Dean’s body. No matter how good their exploits had been before, there weren’t many times where Cas could take the time to just touch, to just explore Dean’s body; there was never enough time. He had time, now. He ducked his head to lick around Dean’s nipple and suck on it. Dean’s next breath was nearly frustrated. Cas found it nearly impossible to suck hickeys onto Dean’s skin because he wanted to smile so much.

Some part of Dean must know what Cas was doing, because his next breath sounded more content than the last, and he snuggled closer to Cas and his hand. A small smile played on Cas’ lips. He wished to be privy to Dean’s dreams to see what they were telling him was happening in the conscious world. No doubt, whatever it was, Dean was happy.

Dean was like putty in Cas’ hands, and when he was turned onto his back, he went willingly so Cas could service his other nipple like he had done the first. Sitting down in Dean’s lap, their cocks rubbed against each other, making Cas groan as he released Dean’s nipple. His eyes shut tight, and he forced himself not to go there. Now wasn’t the time. Still, his hips seemed to move of their own accord, rutting his cock against Dean’s, building a rhythm dissonant to the one Dean was breathing.

He sat off of Dean and spread the sleeping man’s legs open. Settling between his thighs, Cas took a moment to just watch Dean breathe. The spots he’d kissed onto his collarbone were shiny and raw. Precum was beginning to pearl at the tip of his erection, and as Cas watched it bead there, he became increasingly wanting, hungry. He licked his lips, fingers digging into Dean’s thighs before he could stop himself, and he brought his mouth down. The salt of the precum coated Cas’ tongue as he drew his mouth around the head, and when he let go, it was with a little pop. He twirled his tongue around the top, and that was when Dean moaned so lasciviously. His muscles tensed, and he dug himself into the mattress, sheets balling up in his fists. It didn’t appear as though Dean was awake, though, so Cas continued to lick his cock, savoring it. He licked up and down the shaft, feeling the thick vein running in it pulse.

Cas was slowly bobbing his head to work more of Dean’s dick into his mouth when Dean suddenly groaned, “Mmmm, Cas!” When Cas looked up, he saw that Dean’s eyes were closed still, but he was most definitely awake.

Exchanging his mouth for his hand, Cas murmured, “Good afternoon, Dean.” His wrist flicked in his strokes, and Dean writhed beneath him.

“Holy hell, Cas!” Dean’s breathing wasn’t anything close to the deep and steady inhales and exhales he’d been sighing just minutes ago; now, under Cas’ careful care, he was gasping what suspiciously sounded like Cas’ name. “Jesus, your mouth.”

Cas surged up to kiss Dean teasingly. He tugged on Dean’s bottom lip with his teeth before pulling away. Dean whined and tried to follow him, but Cas pushed him back onto the bed with a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to take care of you, Dean Winchester,” he said. “The way you deserve. This is how I should treat you every day.”

The moan Dean elicited hiccuped when Cas replaced his mouth on his cock, and Dean was rutting up to bury himself even deeper into Cas’ mouth. It was nearly too much for Cas, who eased Dean back onto the mattress, held him there, and worked with his hand what he couldn’t fit into his mouth.

“Cas, you son of a bitch,” Dean groaned. “You’re going to be the fucking death of me, I swear. You and your prefect fucking mouth. Jesus Christ. I mean, look at you.” His hand caressed the side of Cas’ head and helped him along. Of their own accord, Cas’ eyelids fell, and he moaned around Dean. That sound or the way Cas was using his tongue on the underside of Dean’s dick must have been it for Dean, because suddenly he was spilling into Cas’ mouth. Cas continued to work Dean through it until Dean was spent and pushing Cas away. The taste of Dean’s come was still in Cas’ mouth when Dean pulled him up for a slick kiss, their tongues sliding together, unable to get enough of each other.

Cas, whose neglected cock was painfully hard, was nearly trembling with want. He started this to get himself to sleep, and he ended up waking up Dean instead. Dean seemed to understand what the desperate moans meant, and he grabbed Cas’ erection in his hand and stroked him as their teeth mashed together.

“You are,” Dean said when he came up for breath, forehead resting against Cas’, “The best boyfriend ever.”

He could feel his orgasm pooling low in his gut with every stroke and twist of Dean’s wrist. He kissed Dean briefly again, and when he spoke, his lips trembled against Dean’s. “I love you.” It was far from the first time he said it, and it was even further from the last time he would, but Cas would never grow old of saying it, and he would always feel that little tickle in his heart at the admission.

“Fuck, Cas, I love you, too.” Dean kissed him again, and only seconds later was Cas coming, emptying his seed onto their stomachs. For a moment, they just stayed where they were, foreheads together and breath shared and heady as Cas’ cum began to cool on their skin.

“Find a towel,” Cas said. “Or a shirt. Something.” He picked at his cum with his fingers until Dean stopped him, laying a hand on his. Cas looked up into Dean’s emerald eyes, gone dark with lust. He was smirking.

“No, Cas, let me.” He pushed Cas onto the bed, their positions flipping. Now Dean was the one on top of Cas. Cas was confused for a moment until Dean leaned down and, never breaking eye contact, licked the cum off Cas’ stomach. The sensation had Cas shuddering and pining for more, but before he could tell Dean to retrieve the bottle of lube from the nightstand, Dean rose up with a rueful smile, Cas’ stomach clean. “Time to get ready for work.”

Cas grimaced, but he knew better than to suggest Dean take a sick day. Instead, he joined Dean in the shower at Dean’s suggestion, making his goal of falling asleep with orgasm moot. But, really, it had been very enjoyable, and Cas looked forward to other opportunities to attempt to go to sleep. He wasn’t going to complain.


	7. Chapter 7

_Two years later…_

Dean thought his entire being was going to explode, so he had no idea how Cas was keeping everything cool. The guy was like the Yoda of emotional calm. Even the palpable thrill in the air couldn’t touch him.

“You’re going to do great,” Dean told him for the ninth time that day. There was an insuppressible grin on his face, one he hadn’t been able to get rid of since he’d woken in Cas’ arms and lazily kissed him awake. There were innumerable perks of being Castiel Novak’s boyfriend - one of which Dean was going to capitalize on tonight - and mornings like that had quickly become one of them.

“I know, Dean.” The only giveaway that Cas was even the slightest bit nervous was how he gripped Dean’s hand slightly tighter in his clammy palm. Beyond the curtains, Dean could hear the audience shuffling around in their seats and chatting amiably about everything. The words weren’t distinguishable in the din, but Dean gathered that a good portion of the crowd was discussing the upcoming talent. They were curious of the pianist that some of the greatest musicians in the area had commended, that had only two weeks ago landed on the front page of Music Magazine as one of the top _Musicians To Look Out_ _For In the New Year_ (and Dean thought that despite Cas’ modesty, he was as proud as Dean was over his accomplishment). The buzz of it was intoxicating.

“Seriously, dude,” he whispered. The announcer asked for the audience to quiet themselves, and Dean knew he only had a few more moments with Cas before he went out and convinced the world even further to fall in love with him. It had only taken Dean several months to realize how he felt for the guy, but hopefully none of the people in the audience were that dense. If Dean saw that even one person wasn’t applauding their heart out when Cas bowed at the end of his piece, he was going to rip their ears off because they obviously weren’t using them. “You’re going to blow the house’s socks off.”

The audience suddenly became a flurry of cheering and clapping, signaling it was time for Cas to rock their worlds. Cas turned to Dean, nerves appearing plainly in his wide eyes and gaped mouth for the first time that evening. “Dean-” he gasped.

“You can do this.” Dean pressed an encouraging kiss into Cas’ lips and felt the man fumble to respond to the brief touch. Dean pulled back before either of them could get too carried away, and he smirked at Cas’ grumpy expression. “There’s more where that came from. Just perform your set and come back and get it.”

Cas’ mouth opened wider, speechless or about to exclaim how unfair Dean was being by withholding affection until after the concert ended. However, he didn’t have time to chastise Dean or kiss him anyway, because one of the stagehands was beckoning Cas to step out from behind the curtain and face the assembly. With a nervous swallow, Cas slipped his hand out of Dean’s and tucked it into his pocket.

“I’m not supposed to have things in my pockets on stage.” Unable to look Dean in the eye, Cas kept his gaze down on his hands. “Would you mind… holding onto this for me?”

The full blue of Cas’ eyes had Dean mute. His mouth felt dry all of a sudden as he tore his gaze away from Cas’ to look at what he held between them. It was a blue velvet box, as unassuming as it was opulent, with a thin like-colored ribbon wrapped around the bottom lip of it. As Dean felt himself reach out and grab for it, the stagehand cleared her throat for Cas to get a move on. Cas’ eyes were heavy as he turned away to the stage, but what emotion they held was a mystery to Dean as he was still focussed on the box now clutched in his fingers.

He used his thumb to lift the lid, and it snapped open with a pop. The ring resting between the cushions gleamed in the stage-lights and reflected the burgundy of the curtains on its silver surface. Three small stones were set in a diagonal line between two parallel scratches in the metal, the stone in the middle just a little bit larger and brighter than its sisters. Dean stared at it until he realized the audience had re-silenced itself for the introduction of Cas’ recital. Rather than miss a second of it, he extracted the band and slid it onto his left ring finger. A perfect fit.

As the sound of the piano stretched into every nook and cranny of the hall, Dean tested the weight of the ring on his finger. It wasn’t foreign like new jewelry usually felt for the first few days of usage. Instead, the ring was natural, as if it and his finger were soulmates. Dean supposed they were.

His fingers kept sliding over the surface of it as Cas continued from one piece to the next after a polite applause from the assembly, and he wondered if Cas would get mad at him for leaving a million and a half smudges on its luster like he pestered him about drawing messages in the bathroom mirror and on the window when the weather was exceptionally cold (these were the days Dean and Cas snuggled under the blankets and watched rental movies on the laptop all day).

The concert continued for thirty minutes before Castiel buried himself in his last piece.

It was their song, Dean’s song, _Original Track_ , and upon hearing the opening notes of the melody he’d listened to every day since he first heard it, Dean’s eyes welled up and his vision shimmered. The crowd listened with rapt attention, nary a cough or a cry to be heard as the keys echoed out the tune. And when it finished, a pin drop could be heard for all of two seconds before the audience jumped out of their seats and applauded heartily for Cas, who bowed stiffly and marched back to the curtain, to Dean. He greeted his fiance with open arms and a kiss that made the cheering reach a nearly deafening decibel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


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